PAMPELUNA 


3  1822  01117  3564 


3jr 

COLETTE 

YVER 


m. 


L'9PARY 

UNlVek^iTY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO        J 


PQ   2615   U8   M513 
UNIVERSITY   OF    CALIFORNIA     SAN    DIEGO 


3   1822  01117  3564 


n: 


MIRABELLE 
OF   PAMPELUNA 


MIRABELLE 
OF    PAMPELUNA 


BY 


COLETTE  YVER 


TRANSLATED  BY 

LUCY   HUMPHREY    SMITH 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1919 


Copyright,  1919,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  August,  1919 


MIRABELLE 
OF   PAMPELUNA 


MIRABELLE   OF   PAMPELUNA 


IT  was  scarcely  eight  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  Monsieur  Henri,  the  clerk,  was 
rearranging  the  set  of  Balzac,  misplaced  by  a 
bibHophile  the  evening  before,  on  the  shelves 
of  the  book-shop,  when  the  door-bell  rang. 
An  immense  overcoat  topped  by  a  soft,  very 
wide-brimmed  hat  rushed  into  the  passage. 
Monsieur  Henri  was  startled  and  said: 
"Oh!  Monsieur  des  Assernes  ! " 
"I  am  he,"  said  the  strange  person  with  the 
travelling-bag.  "I  came  on  the  train  from 
Toulouse.  Is  Monsieur  Duval  down-stairs 
yet?  No?  Nor  Madame  Duval  either? 
Nor  mademoiselle  ?  " 

"I  will  tell  them  that  you  have  come,  mon- 


sieur," 


Monsieur  Henri,  the  clerk,  with  his  long 
white  smock  like  those  worn  by  druggist's  ap- 
prentices, had  an  unassuming  manner.    Mon- 

I 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

sieur  Xavier  des  Assernes,  the  novelist  from 
Toulouse,  was  quite  different.  Nevertheless, 
with  his  angular  profile  and  his  ample  mus- 
tache remaining  black  as  a  crow's  wing,  by- 
artificial  means,  in  spite  of  his  sixty  years,  he 
looked  the  fine,  worthy  man. 

''It  is  unnecessary  to  disturb  them,  my  good 
friend.  I  shall  take  my  valise  to  the  hotel 
and  return  in  two  hours.  Only  tell  them  to 
arrange  to  invite  me  to  luncheon,  for  I  am 
bringing  some  unpublished  manuscript." 

When  Monsieur  des  Assernes  had  reached 
the  sidewalk  of  the  Rue  du  Cherche-Midi, 
which  was  touched  by  a  warm  beam  of  the 
morning  sun,  Monsieur  Henri  might  have 
smiled.  Any  one  else  would  have  smiled  at 
this  big  Don  Quixote,  walking  along  with 
great  strides,  on  a  June  morning  in  Paris. 
But  Monsieur  Henri  was  already  twenty-eight 
years  old.  Moreover,  his  humble  duties  in 
Monsieur  Duval's  shop  combined  with  a  na- 
ture devoid  of  all  vanity  to  give  this  young 
man  a  modest  idea  of  his  own  worth.  He  was 
able  all  the  better  to  appreciate  the  talent  and 
delightful  enthusiasm  of  Monsieur  des  As- 
sernes.   The  little  book-clerk,  handling  rev- 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

erently  from  morning  until  night  the  material 
substance  of  that  which  composed  the  glorious 
literature  of  the  country,  was  obliged  to  honor, 
in  spite  of  his  small  eccentricities,  the  novehst 
who  was  the  devoted  interpreter  of  the  langue 
d'oc  literature  of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  revived 
so  brilliantly  the  most  poetic,  vigorous,  and 
charming  epoch  of  France. 

No.  Monsieur  Henri  had  no  desire  to  ridi- 
cule the  strange  man  he  had  just  interviewed. 
He  anticipated,  rather,  a  great  treat  in  the 
manuscript  des  Assernes  was  bringing.  It 
was  probably  a  discovery  made  in  the  archives 
of  Toulouse,  some  chronicle  of  chivalry  which 
he  was  bringing  there  first  of  all,  and  the  clerk 
would  gather  up  some  of  the  crumbs  while  he 
was  serving  the  customer.  Monsieur  Henri 
was  an  admirer  of  des  Assernes.  In  addition, 
I  have  forgotten  to  tell  you,  he  was  in  love, 
which  does  not  tend  to  make  one  jocose  or 
merry,  especially  if  one  is  not  exactly  happy 
in  his  love.  But  just  here  a  light  step  re- 
sounds on  the  staircase  back  of  the  shop.  A 
young  girl  with  freshly  arranged  hair,  and 
rather  melancholy  black  eyes,  enters  and  seats 
herself  at  the  cashier's  desk.    A  delicate  per- 

3 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

fume  is  diffused  through  the  shop.  Monsieur 
Henri  absent-mindedly  puts  an  Anatole 
France  among  the  Balzacs  and  remarks,  with- 
out turning  his  head : 

"Good  morning,  mademoiselle." 

Mademoiselle  Louise  replies: 

"Good  morning,  Monsieur  Henri." 

These  two  formulas  appear  absolutely  the 
same  on  paper.  Yet,  on  hearing  them  spoken, 
one  would  have  felt  the  shy  affection  and  the 
restrained  emotion  of  Monsieur  Henri,  as  well 
as  the  total  indifference  of  Mademoiselle 
Louise. 

When  the  row  of  Balzacs  is  rearranged  in 
the  order  of  the  catalogue,  or  perhaps  when 
the  clerk's  changed  expression  has  resumed  its 
deceptive  cahn.  Monsieur  Henri  continues: 

"Monsieur  des  Assernes  arrived  this  morn- 
ing. He  will  be  here  at  ten  o'clock;  he  hopes 
to  be  invited  to  luncheon." 

It  is  Mademoiselle  Louise  this  time  who 
flushes  scarlet.  Her  beautiful  black  eyes  lose 
their  languor  and  brighten. 

"Monsieur  des  Assernes  has  come,  truly? 
Oh,  I  must  run  quickly  to  let  my  parents 
know." 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

She  leaves  the  desk;  she  runs;  she  is  as  joy- 
ous and  excited  as  a  young  girl,  in  spite  of  her 
twenty-four  years.  Monsieur  Henri  remains 
alone  in  the  shop.  He  looks  pensively  through 
the  glass  door.  The  Rue  du  Cherche-Midi  is 
crowded  and  noisy.  The  sweeper's  wagon 
passes  with  its  bells;  carts,  returning  from  the 
markets,  are  driven  between  the  milk  wagons. 
Fast  autos  take  the  right  of  way  ahead  of  the 
heavy  vehicles  which  let  them  pass,  and  in 
the  midst  of  the  turmoil  the  street  hawkers, 
moving  along  with  their  hand  carts,  cry  out 
asparagus  and  strawberries  for  sale,  a  sign  of 
summer. 

When  Monsieur  Henri  went  to  work  with 
Monsieur  Duval  he  was  fifteen  years  old  and 
Louise  was  eleven.  She  was  already  pretty, 
and  he  realized  it.  At  that  time  he  was  very 
anxious  to  continue  his  studies  at  the  public 
schools,  but  his  mother,  widow  of  a  small  offi- 
cial, needed  his  financial  assistance  at  once, 
and  he  had  never  complained  because  he  had 
been  obliged  to  take  a  position  before  com- 
pleting his  classical  studies  like  the  others. 
Now,  he  was  almost  like  a  member  of  the 
Duval  family.    He  would  have  liked  to  be- 

5 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

long  to  it  wholly.  Scarcely  any  hope  was  left 
to  him  to-day.  Meanwhile,  it  was  something 
to  live  in  the  shadow  of  Mademoiselle  Louise, 
to  sleep  under  the  same  roof,  to  break  bread 
with  her  at  the  table,  to  breathe  the  subtile 
perfume  she  shed  about  her  in  the  shop,  cruel 
and  torturing  joys  which  would  end  on  the 
day  when  some  Prince  Charming,  brilliant  and 
magnificent,  would  come  to  deprive  him  of 
everything. 


n 


HALF-PAST  TEN.  Des  Assernes  is 
seated  in  a  recess  in  the  shop  made  by 
the  projection  of  the  quarters  of  the  concierge 
into  a  corner  of  the  room;  the  Duval  family 
surround  him.  The  light  is  very  dim;  an 
electric  lamp  gives  an  impression  of  twilight. 
Monsieur  Duval,  the  bookseller,  appears, 
short  and  thin.  His  thoughtful  eyes  gaze 
eagerly  at  the  visitor.  Monsieur  Duval  is  a 
passionate  lover  of  literature.  He  is  the  nov- 
elist's best  friend,  his  devoted  and  keen  lis- 
tener. But  the  sentimental  and  enthusiastic 
bachelor,  des  Assernes,  is  especially  proud  to 
beheve  that  he  has  influenced  the  ardent  mind 
of  the  charming  Louise  with  his  talks,  carry- 
ing her  glowing  imagination  along  with  him 
into  the  wonderful  dream  of  the  past.  The 
excellent  Madame  Duval  also  listens  to  des 
Assernes.  I  shall  not  tell  you  anything  more 
of  her;  you  must  think  of  her  as  a  woman  who 
is  more  of  a  housekeeper  than  a  poet,  listening 

7 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

with  one  ear  to  the  novehst's  tales,  while  she 
is  in  reality  occupied  with  the  roast  and  en- 
trees to  be  served  to  him  during  the  meal. 

Meanwhile  three  students  from  the  Buffon 
College  have  come  into  the  shop.  Monsieur 
Henri  shows  them  various  editions  of  the 
classics  to  choose  from.  The  hesitating  youths 
turn  over  the  leaves  and  timidly  look  at  each 
other  for  advice.  Monsieur  Henri  often  has 
an  opportunity  to  glance  toward  the  darker 
end  of  the  store  where  the  noble  face  of  des 
Assernes,  with  his  strong  profile  Uke  Don 
Quixote,  is  Hghted  by  an  electric  gleam,  while, 
in  the  semi-darkness,  the  delightful  face  of 
Mademoiselle  Louise,  with  half-opened  lips, 
looks  like  a  portrait  in  a  museum. 

"When  they  were  tearing  down  the  wall  of 
the  sacristy,"  relates  des  Assernes,  ''the  abbe 
of  the  convent  of  Saint-Seurin  discovered  this 
chest  full  of  loose  papers,  ancient  manuscripts, 
partially  obliterated  by  time  and  misplaced  by 
ignorant  hands.  The  good  father  sent  for  me 
and  said:  'Monsieur,  this  is  for  you.'  My 
dear  Duval,  I  went  down  on  my  knees  before 
the  chest,  a  record  of  a  century  of  chivalry 
and  of  beauty.    And  when  I  saw  the  agitating 

8 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

date  of  1268,  the  wonderful  year  when  Saint 
Louis,  the  king,  determined  to  go  on  the  most 
extraordinary,  unexpected,  useless,  and  dis- 
interested of  all  the  crusades,  the  tears  liter- 
ally ran  down  my  cheeks.  Imagine  my  de- 
light when,  after  six  weeks  of  research  and 
study,  I  realized  that  I  had  in  my  hand,  mixed 
with  subsequent  monastery  records,  an  ex- 
traordinary and  magnificent  langue  d'oc  ro- 
mance, the  story  of  the  beautiful  Mirabelle  of 
Pampeluna!" 

''Mirabelle  of  Pampeluna  1"  repeats  Made- 
moiselle Louise,  her  hands  crossed  in  a  kind 
of  ecstasy. 

Somewhat  embarrassed  to  disturb  this  lofty 
discourse.  Monsieur  Henri  comes  forward  in 
his  clerk's  blouse  and  announces  in  a  dull 
voice: 

"Two  francs  seventy-five  to  be  taken  in!" 

The  expression  of  Mademoiselle  Louise's 
eyes  is  indescribable.  She  rises  regretfully; 
she  surveys  from  head  to  foot  the  clerk  who 
represents  the  petty  interests,  all  the  medioc- 
rity of  the  small  trade  which  is  consuming  her 
life.  She  goes  to  the  cashier's  desk;  a  stu- 
dent's red  hand  puts  down  a  five-franc  piece; 

9 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

she  returns  the  change,  thinking  of  Pampe- 
luna.  Pampeluna,  Roncesvalles,  Roland, 
Charlemagne;  then  Mirabelle  in  a  silver  corse- 
let, with  her  head  wrapped  in  a  white-silk 
cloth.  .  .  . 

"She  was,"  continues  des  Assernes  after 
Mademoiselle  Louise  has  returned  and  seated 
herself  near  him,  "the  daughter  of  a  very  rich 
lord  of  Navarre,  named  Gascon  Sanse.  She 
was  endowed  with  a  thousand  glorious  talents. 
The  anonymous  chronicler  who  tells  the  his- 
tory says  that  'she  sang  the  most  beautiful, 
delectable,  and  melodious  songs  ever  heard 
from  voice  or  viol.'  All  Pampeluna  was  in- 
clined to  imagine  itself  in  love  with  such  a 
perfect  and  learned  lady,"  he  added.  "How 
the  young  lord  Mainfroy  of  Catalpan  became 
her  knight  has  escaped  me.  The  leaves  are 
missing  here,  but  may  be  found  among  the 
farm  accounts  of  the  monks  which  I  was  not 
able  to  recover.  But  I  imagine  that  it  was 
with  this  pure  and  moving  voice  that  the 
young  noble,  nephew  of  the  count  of  Foix, 
was  so  greatly  charmed.  He  had,  it  seems, 
on  his  coat  of  arms,  a  lion's  head,  and  his 
blood  was  so  fiery  and  valiant  that  when  he 

10 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

was  sixteen,  not  yet  a  knight,  he  held  alone, 
with  five  hundred  men  at  arms,  his  uncle's 
castle  besieged  by  the  king's  troops." 

"At  sixteen  years !"  exclaims  Mademoiselle 
Louise  with  astonishment. 

"All  that  he  did  afterward,"  responds  des 
Assernes,  "is  even  more  wonderful,  if  I  may 
judge  by  subsequent  pages  where  my  curious 
eyes  have  wandered  in  spite  of  myself.  But 
the  greatest  marvel  of  all  was  the  sweet  love 
which  this  invincible  warrior,  recalling  in  more 
ways  than  one  Roland  the  knight-errant,  had 
for  his  lady,  the  lovely  Mirabelle;  it  is  difficult 
to  know  which  to  admire  most,  the  gallantry 
or  the  tenderness  of  his  affection.  The  day 
before  he  was  to  depart  for  the  crusade  he  re- 
mained from  morning  until  night  seated  on 
the  ground,  among  the  flowers,  Hstenmg  to  the 
beautiful  singer  of  moving  ballads!" 

These  are  the  things  Monsieur  Henri  is 
obliged  to  overhear  with  an  indifferent  air,  un- 
der the  watchful  eyes  of  a  client  who  is  unable 
to  make  a  choice  among  the  latest  literary 
novelties  of  the  bookstore.  This  client  is  a 
pretty  woman,  apparently  capricious,  who 
asks  the  clerk  absurd  questions,  such  as:  "Tell 

n 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

me  which  is  the  most  amusing  of  these  three 
novels,"  or  even:  "Why  doesn't  the  author 
ever  have  more  than  two  hundred  and  seventy- 
pages  in  his  books?"  You  may  be  sure  that 
Monsieur  Henri,  rather  than  reply  to  these 
useless  remarks,  would  have  infinitely  pre- 
ferred to  go  and  sit  by  Mademoiselle  Louise  to 
hear  with  her  the  touching  story  of  Mirabelle 
and  of  Mainfroy.  But  he  has  no  right  to  de- 
sert the  salesroom.  His  duty  is  mediocre, 
but  it  is  his  duty.  All  the  time  Mademoiselle 
Louise  is  thinking  of  the  noble  knight  who 
loved  Mirabelle  and  was  so  courageous  that 
nothing  less  than  a  Uon's  head  on  his  coat  of 
arms  was  worthy  to  signify  his  bravery. 

"What  a  wonderful  time,"  she  says  to  her- 
self with  a  sigh,  "when  women  were  loved  by 
such  men!" 

"But,"  asks  Monsieur  Duval  thoughtfully, 
"can  you  tell  me,  my  dear  master,  if  this 
Mirabelle  of  Pampeluna  ever  really  lived,  and 
if  these  manuscripts  so  full  of  wealth  for  you 
are  certainly  the  work  of  a  faithful  chroni- 
cler?" 

"I  should  be  inclined  to  believe,  my  dear 
Duval,"  replied  des  Assemes,  "that  my  au- 

12 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

thor  was,  rather,  a  simple  troubadour,  who 
invented  a  fine  story  of  chivalry,  for  I  have 
already  noticed  some  anachronisms  in  his 
text.  And  I  almost  prefer  it  to  be  so,  I 
assure  you,  for,  in  regard  to  approximate  cor- 
rectness of  dates  and  events,  an  imaginative 
story-teller  is  a  truer  mirror  of  his  time  than 
the  most  scrupulous,  but  dry  and  colorless 
historian."  With  these  words  Xavier  des  As- 
sernes  unrolls  a  manuscript  whose  theme  is 
drawn  from  the  old  parchment  of  the  convent 
of  Saint-Seurin.  It  is  the  romance  of  Mira- 
belle,  written  as  fast  as  he  made  his  discov- 
eries. He  prepares  to  read  it.  But  Madame 
Duval  gives  them  to  understand  that  luncheon 
will  soon  be  ready,  and  that  it  would  be  better 
to  eat  it  before  it  is  spoiled.  ^ 

"You  must  read  it  to  us  for  dessert,  Mon- 
sieur des  Assernes." 


13 


Ill 


MADAME  DUVAL  had  a  sister  called 
Madame  Bouchaud,  living  at  Choisy- 
le-Roi.  If  you  ask  me  why  this  lady  did 
not  live  in  Paris,  like  Madame  Duval,  I 
shall  tell  you  that  she  was  married  to  Mon- 
sieur Bouchaud,  head  of  a  department  in  the 
great  store  Meilleur  Marche,  who  Hved  solely 
for  the  joy  of  fishing  with  a  rod  and  line. 
Their  eighteen-year-old  son,  Georges,  studying 
to  be  a  chemist,  adored  boating,  and  their 
daughter,  Edith,  two  years  older,  begged  for 
country  air.  They  had,  therefore,  bought  as 
a  compromise  a  small  cottage  built  of  round 
stones,  with  a  red-tiled  roof.  Its  architecture 
was  so  comphcated  that  the  house  had  twelve 
corners  caused  by  projections  and  recesses. 
But  its  great  charm  was  its  proximity  to  the 
Seine,  where  every  Sunday  the  family  Bou- 
chaud and  the  family  Duval,  with  Monsieur 
Henri  and  a  salesman  from  the  glove  depart- 
ment,  a  subordinate   of  Father  Bouchaud, 

14 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA^ 

called  Robert  Picot,  had  a  reunion  and 
abandoned  themselves  to  a  joyous  holiday. 

It  is  Sunday.  As  usual  Monsieur  and  Ma- 
dame Duval  and  their  daughter,  all  three 
escorted  by  Monsieur  Henri,  take  the  eleven 
o'clock  train  at  the  Saint-Michel  station.  The 
auto-bus,  in  defiance,  passes  by,  under  their 
eyes,  to  the  terminus;  they  are  reduced  to 
going  on  foot  by  the  Rue  de  Rennes.  Ma- 
dame Duval,  afflicted  with  a  certain  amount 
of  embonpoint,  and  annoyed  by  tight  shoes, 
finds  it  diflacult  to  hurry.  Monsieur  Duval, 
dry  and  nervous,  keeps  repeating  that  they 
will  miss  the  Choisy  train.  Monsieur  Henri, 
in  a  spirit  of  conciliation,  tries  to  distract  his 
attention  by  speaking  of  the  carp  weighing  one 
kilo  and  three  hundred  and  thirty  grammes, 
caught  on  the  previous  Sunday  by  Robert 
Picot. 

"Yes,  it  was  that  carp,"  replies  Monsieur 
Duval  crossly,  "that  broke  my  line  ten  min- 
utes before,  I  am  certain." 

Mademoiselle  Louise  walks  gloomily  by  her 
mother's  side.  She  apparently  ignores  Mon- 
sieur Henri.  But  I  must  tell  you  a  curious 
thing:  Mademoiselle  Louise  is  much  more  oc- 

15 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

cupied  with  Monsieur  Henri  than  appears. 
Only  she  thinks  with  regret  that  he  is  just  this 
type  of  man:  Here  is  a  young  man  who  has 
achieved  nothing  beyond  puhing  carp  or 
gudgeons  out  of  the  water,  and  who  is  con- 
tented !  She  says  to  herself  somewhat  scorn- 
fully: 

"If  one  ever  arranged  a  coat  of  arms  for 
him,  he  would  not  be  honored  with  a  lion's 
head;  and  for  all  his  hatchments,  he  would 
be  satisfied  with  a  fish-hook!" 

Now  they  arrive  at  Saint- Germam-des-Pres. 
Mademoiselle  Louise  lifts  her  eyes  to  the  an- 
cient tower  containing  the  belfry  with  the 
slate  cap.  The  aspect  of  these  ancient  stones, 
recalling  the  past,  consoles  her  for  the  electric 
train,  the  autos,  and  the  common  Sunday 
crowd  walking  along  the  sidewalks  past  the 
closed  shop  windows. 

At  last  here  is  the  boulevard,  and  here  is  the 
Saint-Michel  station.  There  is  a  crush  at  the 
ticket  window.  People  are  sucked  down  into 
the  subway  below.  Very  gently  the  electric 
trains  arrive.  The  Duval  family  finds  room 
in  the  second  class.  Four  young  men  are  al- 
ready in  the  compartment.  The  nature  of 
their  baggage  indicates  clearly  enough  that 

i6 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

the  expedition  on  which  they  are  bound  is  not 
for  the  purpose  of  attacking  anything  more 
than  the  peaceful  inhabitants  of  the  water,  for 
they  carry  bundles  of  Hnes  and  hand-nets  tied 
together.  They  chat  about  their  recent  fish- 
ing excursions  and  evidently  try  to  astonish 
each  other  by  exaggerating  the  fish  stories  of 
which  they  are  the  heroes.  After  leaving 
Paris  they  cross  the  country  market-gardens. 
Fresh,  tender  green  lettuces  lie  in  straight  lines 
in  the  hollows  of  innumerable  furrows  and  turn 
in  perspective  as  the  train  moves.  Enlarged 
cabbages,  grown  in  rich  soil,  seem  to  call  for 
monstrous  cooking  utensils.  The  asparagus  is 
already  showing  itself,  with  its  delicate  foliage 
like  green  mist. 

"Would  you  like  to  live  in  the  country?" 
Monsieur  Henri  asks  of  Mademoiselle  Louise. 
Madame  Duval  is  drowsy.  Monsieur  Duval, 
in  fishing  costume,  has  turned  toward  the 
young  travellers  and  joined  in  their  conversa- 
tion. Henri  and  Louise  are  thus  quite  tete-a- 
tete,  as  if  they  were  alone. 

''That  depends,"  replies  Louise,  with  a  su- 
perior air.  "I  should  not  like  a  market- 
garden  country." 

Monsieur  Henri  knows  very  well,   as  he 

17 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

knows  his  Louise  perfectly,  that  she  would 
prefer  a  mountain  with  pine  woods,  torrents, 
and  precipices.  But  he  says,  looking  straight 
into  the  black  eyes  that  will  not  love  him: 

"Nature  is  always  nature.  We  cannot  de- 
mand too  much  of  life.  We  can  beautify 
whatever  is  not  so  grand  as  we  could  wish. 
We  can  beautify  it  as  we  desire,  by  adding  the 
light  we  possess  in  ourselves.  I  sometimes 
imagine  a  garden,  made  of  squares  of  cabbage 
and  carrots,  with  a  Httle  house  built  in  the 
back;  and  that  might  be  so  beautiful,  so  beau- 
tiful!" 

Monsieur  is  very  much  moved;  his  lips 
tremble  and  his  heart  beats  wildly.  But 
Mademoiselle  Louise  is  unfair.  She  feels  that 
this  fisherman  does  not  appear  well  as  a  phi- 
losopher and  she  smiles  as  she  turns  her  head. 

Besides,  here  is  Choisy-le-Roi.  As  on  every 
other  Sunday,  Madame  Bouchaud  and  her 
daughter  Edith  are  on  the  platform  and  wave 
their  red  umbrellas  when  they  see  the  Duvals. 
Then  follow  kisses  and  squeezing  of  hands, 
and  then  questions: 

"And  Abel?    And  Georges?" 

"They  are  on  the  water  with  Robert  Picot. 

i8 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

They  are  fishing.  We  will  go  quickly  to  get 
them." 

Madame  Bouchaud  happens  to  be  Madame 
Duval's  twin  sister  and  that  saves  me  the 
trouble  of  describing  her  to  you.  But  Made- 
moiselle Edith  does  not  resemble  her  cousin 
Louise  in  any  way.  She  is  tall  and  blonde. 
She  has  a  rather  fragile  air  and  tries  to  appear 
English,  in  harmony  with  her  name. 

Choisy-le-Roi  is  very  noisy.  The  Parisians 
have  continued  to  flock  there  since  morning. 
The  cafe  terraces  overflow.  Wine  bottles  ac- 
cumulate on  the  little  restaurant  tables.  The 
famiUes  greedily  divide  their  chickens.  Some 
phonographs  are  heard  playing  languidly  "On 
the  Shores  of  the  Riviera."  Anglers  pass, 
armed  with  lines;  the  silver  fish  jump  in  the 
nets. 

"My  dear,"  says  Louise,  taking  Edith's 
arm  and  hurrying  her  on  ahead,  "can't  you 
guess?" 

Good !  Exactly  here  father  and  son  Bou- 
chaud emerge  from  the  quay  with  Robert 
Picot.  Their  only  tales  are  of  poor  luck.  I 
assure  you  that  Father  Bouchaud,  weighing 
one  hundred  and  nineteen  kilos,  does  not  suffer 

19 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

from  cold.  His  collar  chokes  him.  He 
mops  his  brow,  and  is  obliged  to  unbutton  his 
coat.  He  is  a  decided  contrast  to  his  sales- 
man, the  young  Monsieur  Robert,  who  is  sal- 
low, has  dark  circles  around  his  eyes,  and  is 
slender.  Being  the  youngest,  Georges  Bou- 
chaud  carries  the  net  full  of  gudgeons. 

After  further  hearty  greetings,  it  is  Edith's 
turn  to  take  Louise's  arm  in  leaving  the 
group : 

"Do  you  know,  my  dear,  Monsieur  Robert 
has  asked  for  my  hand  from  papa  this  week." 

"That,"  replies  Louise,  "I  have  seen  com- 
ing.   And  what  did  you  respond  ?  " 

"Ah!  I  was  very  much  embarrassed,  you 
understand.  I  cannot  say  that  I  dislike  him, 
for  I  do  not.  I  find  him  very  nice.  But  it  is 
so  ordinary  to  marry  a  salesman !  I  should 
have  liked  to  love  a  young  man  who  had  done 
something  noble,  a  husband  of  whom  I  should 
have  been  proud — an  aviator,  for  example." 

"That  is  like  me.  But  what  can  you  ex- 
pect? In  the  sad  times  we  live  in  there  is  no 
more  heroism.  Men  care  only  for  trifles. 
Their  ideal  is  to  bring  back  a  bigger  fish  story 
than  any  of  their  friends,  or  to  play  manille  as 

20 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

an  appetizer.    Beyond  that,  there  is  nothing 
for  them." 

"  France  is  certainly  decadent,"  says  Edith. 

"Yes,  indeed  she  is!"  says  Louise.  But 
they  have  reached  the  Bouchauds'  house. 
While  Edith  cuts  a  rose  in  the  garden  for  her 
cousin,  Mamma  Bouchaud  calls  until  she  is 
hoarse  on  the  outside  steps: 

"Come  to  the  table!  The  mutton  will  be 
burned." 

There  is  a  melon — the  first  of  the  season — 
over  which  they  all  exclaim ;  haricot  of  mutton, 
the  national  dish  of  the  bourgeois  French,  and 
a  turbot  not  found  in  the  Seine.  Father  Bou- 
chaud shakes  with  laughter  as  he  shows  the 
salad  bowl  of  strawberries,  and  says  that  since 
five  o'clock  in  the  morning  he  has  been  bent 
over  in  the  vegetable  garden,  picking  one  by 
one  the  endless  Httle  "torments,"  and  that 
his  wife  inflicts  this  punishment  upon  him  to 
make  him  thin.  Father  Bouchaud  is  liveliness 
personified.  He  has  a  thousand  anecdotes  to 
relate  about  the  clients  of  the  Meilleur  MarcM; 
of  the  woman  with  big  hands  who  is  abso- 
lutely determined  to  wear  six  and  a  half 
gloves;  of  the  one  with  bony  hands  who  al- 

21 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

ways  splits  the  glove  she  tries  on,  and  of  the 
one  who  wants  to  return  the  evening  gloves 
she  has  worn  during  an  entire  ball.  They  lis- 
ten and  he  amuses  them.  Monsieur  Henri  is 
placed  by  Louise's  side,  and  Monsieur  Robert 
next  to  Edith.  Monsieur  Duval  wants  to  re- 
count in  his  turn  the  visit  of  des  Assernes, 
who  came  yesterday  from  Toulouse.  But 
suddenly  his  exuberant  brother-in-law  inter- 
rupts him: 

''And  this  blessed  Georges,  you  know  he  is 
to  pass  his  first  examination  a  month  from 
now!  If  he  keeps  on,  the  fellow  will  be  a 
chemist  at  twenty-five." 

"Unhappily,"  adds  Georges,  correcting  his 
statement,  "the  three  years'  law  has  since 
passed  to  interfere  with  our  plans,  papa. 
You  never  think  of  that." 

"  Ah !  the  three  years'  law,  it  is  true  that  I 
can  never  beat  that  idea  into  my  head.  And 
I  ask  you  of  what  use  ..." 

"To  grow  musty  for  three  years  in  bar- 
racks," continues  Georges. 

Mademoiselle  Louise  watches  her  young 
cousin  with  disapproval. 

"What  would  you  have  done  if  you  had 

22 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

lived  in  the  time  of  the  crusades?"  she  asks 
in  a  crushing  tone. 

Then  the  older  sister  adds  to  complete  the 
rebuke:  "Have  you  no  pride  in  thinking  that 
you  are  going  to  defend  your  country  during 
the  three  years?" 

"Oh,  my  country  is  hardly  menaced,"  says 
Georges,  with  assurance. 

"The  head  of  the  silk  department,"  timidly 
remarks  the  silent  Robert  Picot,  reddening, 
"said  the  other  day  that  there  will  be  war 
next  spring." 

"What  do  you  think  of  that!"  exclaims 
Georges. 

"He  is  an  imbecile,"  declares  Monsieur 
Bouchaud. 


23 


IV 

UNDER  a  pale-blue  cloudless  sky  the 
Seine  moves  with  quiet  flow,  bordered 
with  the  fresh  green  country  of  the  Parisian 
suburbs,  where  the  poplars  quiver.  The  tac- 
tac  of  a  powerful  gasolene  motor  breaks  the 
silence;  a  swiftly  rushing  stem  cleaves  the 
waters:  it  is  the  Bouchaud's  motor  yawl  pass- 
ing by.  Georges  is  at  the  helm.  The  two 
young  women  with  their  heads  wrapped  in 
white  veils,  floating  to  the  wind,  are  longing 
to  exchange  further  confidences.  But  it  would 
be  necessary  to  shout  them  in  a  loud  voice  to 
overcome  the  noise  of  the  motor.  They  feel 
behind  them,  shy  and  melancholy,  the  gaze  of 
the  two  clerks,  and  are  anxious  for  fear  they 
may  be  overheard. 

Heaven  be  praised,  before  arriving  at  the 
Ablon  mill-dam,  the  fishermen  conceive  the 
idea  of  anchoring  by  a  grassy,  verdant  island. 
They  proceed  at  once  to  regulate  the  engine. 
The  motor  is  quiet,  the  boat  is  headed  straight. 

24 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

Louise  and  Edith  go  to  sit  at  the  back.    Lou- 
ise, at  last,  is  able  to  pour  out  her  heart. 

"Do  you  know,  my  dear.  Monsieur  des  As- 
sernes  arrived  yesterday  from  Toulouse.  He 
came  straight  to  us  to  read  us  something  ex- 
traordinary, marvellous,  and  fascinating :  it  is 
a  romance  of  chivalry  which  he  found  on  some 
old  parchments,  the  history  of  Mirabelle  of 
Pampeluna." 

"You  were  in  great  luck  !"  sighs  Edith. 

Louise  continues,  Hfting  her  head  with 
pride : 

"Count  Mainfroy  of  Catalpan,  nephew  of 
the  count  of  Foix,  was  madly  in  love  with 
Mirabelle,  but  he  was  the  most  warlike  knight 
of  his  time.  Monsieur  des  Assernes  read  to 
us  yesterday,  at  dessert,  what  he  had  begun 
to  write  about  this  knight  who  went  on  a  cru- 
sade.   Ah,  my  dear,  but  he  was  marvellous ! " 

"Monsieur  des  Assernes?"  queries  Edith. 

"Oh,  no,  Mamfroy  of  Catalpan  !" 

"In  the  name  of  all  the  saints,"  cries  Mon- 
sieur Bouchaud,  "my  Hne  is  broken  again.  I 
wager  it  was  a  four-pound  pike !" 

"Do  be  quiet,  Monsieur  Bouchaud,"  begs 
Robert  Picot,  in  a  muffled  voice. 

25 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

With  the  reflections  of  the  dark  foliage  the 
stream  looks  like  black  ink.  A  delicious  fresh- 
ness prevails.  On  the  highest  branch  of  a  sil- 
ver poplar  a  blackbird  sings  with  notes  of 
crystal  purity.  Our  two  mammas  are  dozing. 
Louise  continues: 

"When  he  had  decided  to  take  the  cross  and 
follow  the  king  beyond  the  sea,  as  the  story 
goes,  he  went,  before  his  departure,  to  spend  a 
week  at  the  chateau  of  Pampeluna,  so  that  he 
might  gaze  with  all  his  eyes  on  the  lady  of 
his  thoughts  whom  he  was  leaving  forever. 
And  it  was  there  that  they  had  wonderful 
conversations  on  honor,  chivalry,  and  love. 
The  beautiful  Mirabelle  demanded,  to  test 
him:  'Sweet  lover,  which  do  you  love  best, 
honor  or  your  lady?'  To  which  the  knight 
replied :  '  I  love  my  lady  above  everything,  in- 
cluding honor.'  'Then,'  said  Mirabelle,  'if 
you  love  your  lady  so  much  that  you  prefer 
her  to  everything,  including  honor,  why  are 
you  willing  to  make  her  suffer  by  leaving  her, 
to  fight  the  Saracens?'  'If  I  love  my  lady 
sincerely,'  answered  Mainfroy,  'I  would  rather 
have  her  grieve  for  my  death  than  for  my  dis- 
honor.    Consequently,  if  for  the  false  love  of 

26 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

her  I  should  refuse  to  obey  the  call  of  God 
and  the  king,  I  should  sm  more  grievously 
against  my  lady  than  in  forsaking  her  in  her 
chateau.'  Then  Mirabelle  cried:  'A  good  re- 
sponse, Sir  Knight.  Nevertheless,  I  should 
not  like  to  see  you  fail.'  And  to  requite  him 
Mirabelle  sang  to  Mainf roy  a  beautiful  melody, 
with  one  of  the  nuns  to  accompany  her  on  the 
viol.  However,  when  the  count  of  Catalpan 
was  obliged  to  depart,  Mirabelle  shed  so  many 
tears  that  all  of  her  attendants  fled,  unable  to 
bear  the  sight  of  so  much  grief.  And  she 
climbed  to  the  tower  of  the  chateau  of  Pampe- 
luna,  which  was  very  high.  The  knight  was 
already  in  armor.  She  watched  the  rider  and 
his  suite  for  a  long  time  as  they  crossed  the 
mountain.  When  he  had  disappeared,  she 
shut  herself  in  her  room,  where  for  a  long  time 
she  did  not  wish  to  eat  or  drink.  As  for  the 
count  Mamfroy,  he  urged  his  steed  and 
wearied  all  of  his  suite  on  the  road,  in  his  ar- 
dent longing  to  kill  the  infidels." 

"How  I  should  have  liked  to  live  in  such 
an  age!"  says  Edith. 

Without  adding  anything,  Louise  heaves  a 
long  sigh.    Then  the  two  young  girls  turn 

27 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

toward  their  two  commonplace  lovers.  The 
latter  are  crouched  down,  peaceful  and  good- 
natured,  on  the  edge  of  the  boat,  with  bent 
backs  and  the  fishing-pole  in  their  doubled 
fists.  From  time  to  time  one  of  them  pulls 
out  a  silver  gudgeon,  which  flaps  about  on 
the  end  of  the  Une. 

"What  an  exquisitely  beautiful  day !"  mur- 
murs Father  Bouchaud,  thus  expressing  the 
contentment  and  the  quiet  bliss  of  every  one. 

''The  young  men  of  to-day  make  fun  of  ad- 
ventures," says  Louise  disapprovingly. 

Monsieur  Duval,  who  does  not  fish,  reads 
Le  Temps  of  the  evening  before  and  interrupts 
to  read  aloud: 

"Well,  well!  It  seems  that  the  president 
of  the  republic  is  going  to  Russia.  I  ask 
you  .  .  ." 

"Do  be  quiet,"  demands  his  brother-in-law 
imperiously;  "you  will  frighten  the  fish." 


28 


V 


ON  Sunday  evening  a  clamorous  multi- 
tude invades  the  railway  station  of 
Choisy-le-Roi.  In  the  dimly  lighted  waiting- 
room  children  sleep  on  the  benches.  Young 
girls  carry  armfuls  of  wild  flowers,  already  half 
faded.  Young  people  of  a  pleasure  party, 
very  much  excited  by  the  wine  served  to  them 
at  dinner  in  the  little  restaurant,  sing  the 
Riviera  waltz;  the  garlands  of  harmony 
ornamenting  all  of  its  melodies  have  accom- 
panied them  throughout  this  exhilarating  day. 
Successful  fishermen  protect  as  best  they 
can  the  booty  they  are  carrying  back  to 
Paris. 

The  family  Bouchaud  has  come  to  attend 
the  Duval  family,  until  it  is  absorbed  in  the 
tumult.  While  waiting  for  the  train  Robert 
Picot  hovers  around  Edith,  with  whom,  dur- 
ing the  entire  day,  he  has  not  been  able  to 
exchange  a  word  in  private.     By  good  fortune 

29 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

a  movement  of  the  crowd  detaches  her  from 
her  group  of  relatives.  She  finds  herself  alone, 
facing  Monsieur  Robert.  This  noisy  station 
is  perhaps  not  a  favorable  place  for  the  out- 
pouring of  affections.  In  novels,  for  similar 
scenes,  they  choose  the  most  poetic  spots, 
where  it  is  possible  to  have  a  touch  of  mys- 
tery. But  in  real  life  one  takes  things  as 
they  come.  Robert  Picot  is,  moreover,  very 
happy  to  be  able  to  exchange  a  few  words 
with  Mademoiselle  Edith,  even  in  the  hubbub 
of  this  waiting-room. 

"Your  father  has  told  you  that  we  have 
talked  together  about  you,  mademoiselle?" 
he  murmurs,  a  Httle  nervous. 

Oh,  yes,"  rephes  Edith,  rather  troubled. 
You  are  .  .  .  you  are  very  good  to  think  of 
me.  You  understand  that  I  was  very  much 
surprised.     I  cannot  answer  you  yet." 

"Do  I  displease  you?"  suggests  the  young 
man,  his  teeth  clenched,  but  with  an  expres- 
sion of  indifference. 

"I  do  not  say  that  .  .  .  only  I  must  con- 
sider." 

At  this  moment  a  large  woman  pushes 
against  them,  as  she  tries  to  go  out.    After  a 

30 


ti 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

silence  Monsieur  Robert  continues,  as  he 
searches  through  his  pocketbook:  "I  should 
like  to  give  you  something.  Here  are  some 
verses." 

"Oh!"  says  Edith,  blushing,  "you  have 
composed  some  verses  for  me !" 

Immediately  she  begins  to  estimate  wheth- 
er, lacking  an  aviator,  it  would  not  be  just  as 
stylish  to  marry  a  poet.  But  Monsieur  Rob- 
ert, with  a  wan  smile,  replies: 

"No,  no;  they  are  not  mine.  I  have  only 
copied  them  for  you.  They  are  by  Sully 
Prudhomme.  That  is  much  better  than  by 
Robert  Picot." 

"Ah !"  says  Edith,  disenchanted.  And  she 
reaches  out  her  hand  to  take  the  paper. 

"I  copied  them  with  emotion,"  stammers 
Robert  Picot,  looking  at  Edith. 

Edith  turns  somewhat  pale  under  this 
strange  look.  She  would  like  to  thank  Rob- 
ert and  tell  him  that  she  would  read  the  verses 
when  she  reaches  home  in  the  evening,  but 
the  train  arrives.  The  glass  doors  are  opened 
and  the  crowd  rushes  out  on  the  wharf.  The 
family  Bouchaud  is  pushed  along  behind  the 
family  Duval  as  far  as  the  car  steps.   Through- 

31 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

out  the  length  of  the  train  the  same  cry  re- 
echoes: 

"  Good-by !  Thank  you.  Until  next  Sun- 
day!" 

The  train  has  already  disappeared  into  the 
night  as  Madame  Bouchaud,  remaining  in 
front  of  the  station  with  her  family,  still  waves 
her  handkerchief  tragically. 

As  there  was  no  room  in  the  second-class 
compartments,  the  Duvals  are  estabhshed  in 
the  first-class,  where  they  find  themselves 
alone,  by  a  happy  chance.  The  softness  of 
the  seats  and  the  ease  of  the  springs,  as  well 
as  the  fatigue  of  a  day  in  the  open  air,  have 
quickly  lulled  the  parents  to  sleep.  Here  they 
are  dozing  before  they  have  reached  the  next 
station.  But  the  same  causes  do  not  produce 
the  same  effect  upon  clerks  as  upon  employers. 
I  assure  you  that  Monsieur  Henri  has  not 
the  shghtest  desire  to  sleep.  Louise,  a  Httle 
weary,  is  charming  this  evening.  Her  lovely 
eyes  have  a  velvety  quality,  very  sweet  to 
watch,  but  also  a  depth  that  makes  one  giddy. 
On  his  part,  Monsieur  Henri  has  lost  the  mod- 
est air  he  wears  in  the  shop  of  the  Cherche- 
Midi.      It  is  quite  another  thing  from  han- 

32 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

dling,  from  morning  until  night,  in  a  dark 
store,  the  pale  yellow  covers  of  books  at  three 
francs  fifty,  quite  different  to  sail  on  a  silver 
stream,  under  a  torrid  sun,  while  the  birds 
split  their  throats  in  the  trees  of  the  river 
banks.  The  intoxication  of  nature  makes  one 
long  for  happiness. 

Mademoiselle  Louise  has  the  prettiest  hand 
in  the  world,  with  a  delicate  wrist  showing 
beyond  a  lace  cuff.  This  hand  hypnotizes 
Monsieur  Henri,  who  all  at  once  ventures  to 
take  it  and  press  it  very  hard. 

"I  love  you,  Louise,"  he  murmurs.  She  is 
not  exactly  annoyed.  She  doesn't  withdraw 
her  hand.  .  .  .  But  she  thinks  of  the  knight 
of  Catalpan  and  she  questions: 

"If  I  should  ask  you  to  throw  yourself  for 
me  from  the  top  of  the  Eiffel  Tower,  what 
would  you  do?" 

Amazed,  the  young  man  stares  blankly  at 
her.  His  good  sense  is  completely  upset;  then 
he  repKes  quickly: 

"If  you  should  ask  that,"  he  says  coldly, 
"it  would  be  because  you  were  extremely  ma- 
licious; then  I  should  cease  to  love  you,  and  I 
should  not  do  it." 

33 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

He  stops  pressing  Louise's  hand.  He  has 
received  a  shock  of  cold  water.  But,  as  a 
tender  heart  is  always  afraid  of  having  hurt 
the  object  of  its  admiration,  he  continues  after 
an  instant:  "If  it  were  necessary  to  save  you, 
I  should  do  it,  Mademoiselle  Louise." 


34 


VI 

THE  month  of  September  has  arrived,  and 
with  it  Xavier  des  Assernes,  who  has 
crossed,  on  the  journey  to  Paris,  a  France 
golden  with  grain  and  the  sun.  But  to-day 
the  enthusiastic  author,  seated  in  the  shop  in 
the  Rue  du  Cherche-Midi  between  M.  Duval 
and  Mademoiselle  Louise,  leaves  the  manu- 
script of  the  lovely  Mirabelle  untouched  on 
his  knees.  A  profound  silence  hovers  around 
the  shelves  of  books.  Do  not  look  here  any 
more  for  M.  Henri's  white  smock.  It  is  ex- 
actly one  month  to-day  since  he  was  drafted. 
He  went  August  2  with  his  friend,  Robert 
Picot,  and  no  one  since  then  has  received  any 
word  from  them.  It  is  reported  that  the  Ger- 
mans are  three  days'  march  from  Paris.  Sud- 
denly the  sound  of  the  door-bell  breaks  the 
silence  of  the  shop.  The  door  opens  with  a 
bang.  M.  Bouchaud  enters  in  a  gust  of  wind. 
He  pulls  out  his  handkerchief  and  mops  his 
forehead  under  his  straw  hat  as  he  exclaims: 

35 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

"You  haven't  heard  it?  The  government 
is  leaving." 

Then  he  drops  into  a  chair. 

Slightly  more  reserved  and  a  little  paler 
than  usual,  M.  Duval  questions  him: 

"Where  is  it  going?    To  Versailles ? " 

"To  Toulouse?"  asks  des  Assernes. 

"Oh !  I  don't  know  myself !"  replies  the  de- 
partment manager  humorously.  "They  are 
running  away  to  put  the  musty  old  papers  of 
France  where  they  are  safe.     That  is  all." 

"When  I  arrived  last  evening  at  Orsay," 
says  des  Assernes,  "I  was  obliged  to  push 
through  a  crowd  of  people  sitting  even  on  the 
floor  of  the  station  while  they  waited  for  the 
uncertain  departure  of  the  train  which  was  to 
take  them  away.  The  sight  was  both  dis- 
tressing and  picturesque." 

"  Is  it  then  true  that  the  enemy  is  approach- 
ing?" queries  Louise, 

Louise  has  her  usual  air.  Her  customary 
gravity  is  in  harmony  with  the  present  hour. 

"So  they  say,"  replies  Uncle  Bouchaud, 
"but  before  I  believe  that  Paris  is  taken,  I 
must  see  fifty  thousand  pointed  helmets  in  the 
Place  de  la  Concorde.    And  even  when  I  shall 

36 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

have  seen  them  I  shall  say  to  myself:  'Abel, 
your  eyes  are  deceiving  you.'  " 

"Bravo,  monsieur!"  cheers  des  Assernes. 
"That  is  a  remark  worthy  of  becoming  his- 
toric." 

"I  did  not  say  it  for  that,"  replies  Father 
Bouchaud,  quite  astonished. 

"It  seems  that  they  hear  the  cannon  in  the 
Saint  Denis  district,"  remarks  M.  Duval. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  asks  the 
novehst.  "  Where  are  you  going  to  find  a  safe 
place?" 

"I,  find  a  safe  place?"  cries  Father  Bou- 
chaud, rolling  his  eyes  furiously. 

"We,  find  a  safe  place?" exclaims  M.  Duval 
at  the  same  time. 

"My  dear  sir,"  replies  the  department  man- 
ager, holding  up  his  head,  "it  was  thirty-seven 
years  ago  the  28th  of  last  July  since  I  went  to 
the  Meilleur  Marche.  I  began  there  as  a  small 
salesman.  I  was  promoted  then  from  posi- 
tion to  position,  and  I  have  earned  there  the 
few  pennies  I  possess.  It  is  the  estabhshment 
that  has  made  me  what  I  am.  When  I  speak 
of  it  I  say  the  'house,'  in  the  same  way  I 
refer  to  my  home.     Very  well,  monsieur,  to- 

37 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

day  when  two- thirds  of  the  staff,  called  by  the 
mobilization,  are  away  and  when  the  'house' 
is  working  under  difficulties,  I  consider  it  my 
duty  to  remain  at  my  post,  like  a  soldier;  yes, 
monsieur,  like  an  obedient  soldier." 

The  blood  has  mounted  to  his  face,  making 
red  blotches  on  his  smooth-shaven  cheeks  and 
swelling  the  veins  of  his  neck.  With  a  motion 
he  unfastens  his  collar-button,  and  then,  re- 
lieved and  comfortable,  he  continues: 

''I  begged  Madame  Bouchaud  and  the  little 
one  to  remain  alone  at  Choisy.  For,  mon- 
sieur, you  understand  that  in  future  we  can- 
not count  on  regular  suburban  train  service. 
I  cannot  go  there  any  more  to  sleep.  Well, 
monsieur,  those  two  creatures  who,  bless  my 
soul,  after  all  are  nothing  but  women,  do  you 
know  what  they  replied  to  me?  Madame 
Bouchaud  said  to  me:  'Do  you  think  that  we 
shall  remain  here  while  you  are  in  Paris  in 
great  danger?  No,  no;  we  shall  go  and  take 
a  lodging,  a  shelter,  no  matter  what,  and  we 
shall  die  together.'  And  my  daughter  Edith 
added:  'Even  if  the  Germans  should  enter 
Paris  I  should  not  be  afraid.'" 

He  is  calmer  now,  but  his  eyes  are  wet,  and 

38 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

a    furtive    tear  slides  toward  his  mustache. 
With  altered  voice  he  adds: 

"But  best  of  all,  monsieur,  the  crowning 
touch  of  the  story  is  that  the  Httle  one, 
Georges,  my  son,  eighteen  years  old,  has  said 
to  me  from  morning  until  night,  for  three 
weeks:  'I  want  to  enHst.  I  must  enlist.'  Say 
what  you  will,  a  father  who  has  only  one 
youngster  of  that  age  shudders  to  think  of  his 
being  under  fire.  I  was  angry.  I  swore  and 
cursed,  and  I  declared  that  I  should  never  give 
my  consent.  Confound  it !  France  isn't  des- 
perate enough  for  soldiers  to  make  it  necessary 
for  eighteen-year-old  youngsters  to  die  in  her 
defense.  But  patriotism  is  a  curious  thing, 
monsieur.  The  other  evening  I  heard  a 
strange  noise  coming  from  Georges'  room. 
His  mother  said  to  me:  'He  is  ill;  they  say  he 
is  groaning.'  I  ran  to  him.  The  boy  was 
crying,  hidden  under  his  sheet.  And  he  com- 
plained :  'When  I  think  that  they  are  in  France, 
that  they  are  marching  toward  us,  and  that  I 
haven't  even  a  gun  to  shoot  at  them ! '  He 
didn't  say  any  more,  monsieur,  but  I  had  not 
realized,  before,  the  meaning  of  the  invasion, 
and  at  that  moment  I  understood  it.     And  I 

39 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

blurted  out  the  decisive  sentence:  'Georges, 
I  give  you  my  consent.'  Now  it  is  done. 
There  is  nothing  left  for  him  but  to  go  to  sign 
his  papers  at  the  town  hall  of  Choisy." 

Xavier  des  Assernes  listens  with  admira- 
tion to  the  honest  bourgeois,  M.  Bouchaud, 
as  he  expresses  so  simply  the  finest  feelings 
of  his  race. 

Louise  murmurs,  with  a  touch  of  emotion: 
"Georges  is  splendid;  you,  too,  uncle." 

More  accustomed  to  the  analysis  of  his  ex- 
periences and  feelings,  the  bookseller  speaks 
in  his  turn. 

*'I  shall  not  leave  my  book-shop,"  he  as- 
serts. "It  would  bring  me  more  honor,  per- 
haps, if  it  did  not  seem  best  to  me  that  I 
should  remain  here  to  defend  the  products  of 
the  French  mind,  of  which  I  am  the  humble 
guardian,  against  the  plundering  of  these  bar- 
barians. But  I  could  not  endure  it  if  in  my 
absence  they  should  enter  here  and  defile  or 
steal  my  collections.  I  have  some  very  fine 
Villons.  It  is  merchandise  that  is  not  for  the 
nose  of  these  villains.  I  know  that  as  for  my 
Rabelais,  which  will  make  Monsieur  des  As- 
sernes turn  yellow  with  envy,  I  should  take  it 

40 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

with  me.  But  my  bargain  Ronsards,  my 
cheap  Voltaires,  and  even  my  editions  of  mod- 
ern authors  at  ninety-five  centimes,  I  should  be 
enraged  to  see  them  become  the  prey  of  these 
savages.  No,  no,  I  remain.  I  have  a  good  re- 
volver and  I  shall  defend  my  shop.  Besides, 
I  hope,  like  Bouchaud,  that  the  pointed  hel- 
mets will  not  come  as  far  as  this,  and  that  we 
shall  soon  see  the  end  of  this  cataclysm.  In 
which  case  it  is  important  that  commercial  life 
should  be  continued  and  that  we,  the  civil- 
ians, who  do  not  pour  out  our  blood,  uphold 
the  usual  course  of  regular  living,  without  dis- 
turbing ourselves.  Only  I  should  like  to 
arrange  that  my  wife  and  daughter  should 
go  away." 

Then  Louise  straightens  herself  up,  and 
adds  simply:  "Ask  Mirabelle  of  Pampeluna  if 
she  would  have  fled  before  the  enemy." 


41 


VII 

THE  road  on  the  ridge  of  the  hill  is  as 
white  as  chalk;  it  is  dazzHng  in  the 
brilliant  sunlight.  With  a  rumble  and  clatter 
the  passage  of  forty  thousand  army  shoes 
reverberates  in  cadence;  the  red  trousers  are 
flaming  in  the  light.  But  in  the  distance  the 
troops  are  enveloped  in  a  thick  rolling  cloud, 
which  is  simply  the  dust  they  have  raised. 
To  the  right  and  left  the  ripe  oats,  ready  to 
be  harvested,  wave  and  bend  back  their  full 
ears.  From  time  to  time  a  marching  song 
pours  forth  from  the  throat  of  a  corporal  wish- 
ing to  hurry  his  squad  along.  It  is  '^Les  godil- 
lots  sont  lourds  dans  rsac,^'  or"Ya  la  goutte  a 
hoire  Id-haut^    But  the  men  grumble: 

*'He  thinks,  then,  that  we  are  not  thirsty 
enough  already,  the  bull-head?" 

And  the  song  dies  unechoed  in  the  dull 
thud  of  heavy  tramping.  Suddenly,  in  the 
rear,  a  muffled,  indistinct  explosion  is  heard 
resounding  and  repeating  itself. 

42 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

"Do  you  think  that  firecracker  hit 
Rheims?" 

"There  is  no  doubt  of  it,  old  fellow;  they 
ought  to  be  able  to  see  the  cathedral." 

"When  we  left  the  city  this  morning  they 
were  not  yet  firing  on  it." 

"The  wretched  beasts!  Fortunately,  we 
are  waiting  for  them  around  the  corner." 

Perhaps  you  have  not  recognized,  under 
their  dusty  caps  and  their  coal-black  skin, 
through  which  their  wild  eyes  shine,  the  two 
troopers  exchanging  opinions,  in  the  fourth 
squad  of  the  first  section  of  the  eighth  com- 
pany, as  they  cover  the  kilometers — they  are 
on  the  thirtieth  for  this  morning — on  the 
dusty  roads.  Well,  they  are  M.  Henri  and 
M.  Robert,  the  book-clerk  and  the  glove- 
seller.  A  kind  fortune  has  thrown  them 
both  in  the  same  regiment  and  in  the  same 
8th,  which  at  Charleroi,  ten  days  earlier, 
held  out  for  two  hours  with  muskets  alone 
against  two  German  machine-guns.  You  may 
well  believe  that  the  8th  did  not  come  out 
of  it  intact.  Far  from  it.  M.  Henri,  with 
torn  and  riddled  coat,  was  hit,  and  M. 
Robert   has   a   scratch   on  his  neck.     After 

43 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

which  they  were  detached  and  placed  in  the 
same  squad.     And  here  they  are. 

"Do  you  know,  Picot,  they  said  there  was 
a  village  down  below." 

"Excellent !    We  shall  have  a  drink." 

M.  Henri  is  not  mistaken.  It  is  the  vil- 
lage of  La  Chapelle.  And  a  command  passes 
along  the  line,  producmg  a  loud  sigh  of  re- 
lief among  these  worn-out  troops,  rismg  from 
the  very  heart  of  these  twenty  thousand  men, 
the  contented  sigh  of  the  exhausted  animal 
finally  able  to  rest;  they  are  to  camp  in  this 
village ! 

There  is  quick  confusion.  The  red  trousers 
scatter  like  a  flood  glistening  in  the  meadows 
and  fields.  The  men  stretch  their  tired  legs 
with  ecstasy  in  the  soft  comfort  of  the  ripe 
oats.  The  inhabitants  emerge  from  the  farms. 
The  same  cry  resounds  everywhere — "Wine ! " 

But  here  on  the  road  is  a  moving  cloud  ad- 
vancing, accompanied  by  the  sound  of  gallop- 
ing, of  army  trucks  and  of  clanking  iron.  It 
is  a  detachment  of  heavy  artillery,  ten  bat- 
teries which  will  leave  their  ammunition 
wagons  drawn  up  in  line  on  the  principle  street 
of  the  village,  while  drivers,  gunners,  and 
artillery-men  creep  into  the  streets  and  lanes, 

44 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

anywhere  that  a  farmhouse  or  a  cottage  is 
to  be  found,  to  repeat  again  the  same  cry: 
"Wine!" 

Night  is  closing  in.  The  evening  is  suffo- 
cating. Picot  and  Lecointre  set  up  a  fine  ket- 
tle in  a  stack  of  newly  cut  wheat  by  the  side 
of  a  little  hill.  The  eyes  of  the  twenty  thou- 
sand harassed  men  close  under  a  sky  black 
with  storm.  They  have  satisfied  the  most  ter- 
rible of  all  needs,  thirst,  and  from  the  stables 
and  the  cattle-sheds,  where  the  most  knowing 
are  lodged,  the  groves,  the  haystacks,  and  the 
fields  surrounding  the  village,  rises  the  snor- 
ing of  the  sleeping  troops. 

Picot  and  Lecointre  are  not  sleepy.  They 
are  asking  themselves  the  meaning  of  this 
retreat.     They  do  not  understand  it. 

"  If  I  knew  that  it  was  a  rout,"  asserts  Henri 
Lecointre,  who  is  easily  depressed,  I  should 
have  preferred  to  have  stayed  at  Charleroi 
with  my  comrades." 

''A  rout!  But,  old  fellow,"  explains  Rob- 
ert Picot,  "don't  you  realize  that,  on  the  con- 
trary, we  are  executing  a  manoeuvre?  They 
are  taking  us  to  some  place,  I  don't  know  just 
where.     But  let  the  Boches  beware  !" 

'Do  you  remember,"  remarks  Henri  Le- 

45 


((- 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

cointre  mournfully,  "that  beautiful  Sunday 
at  Choisy,  when  we  fished  all  the  afternoon, 
anchored  by  the  island?" 

"Ah!"  replies  Robert  Picot.  "How  can 
you  ask  if  I  remember?" 

A  clap  of  thunder,  this  time  a  genuine  one, 
closes  their  lips.  At  the  same  time  the  pat- 
tering of  the  rain  and  hail  on  the  straw  of  their 
shelter  compels  them  to  bury  themselves 
deeper  in  the  warm  hut.  Soon  they  are  over- 
powered by  fatigue,  in  spite  of  the  din  of  the 
storm.  They  are  off  to  a  land  more  beautiful 
than  the  terrible  reality.  .  .  . 

At  daybreak,  on  the  muddy  road,  hardly 
lighted  by  the  dawn,  three  soldiers  on  cycles 
are  seen,  pedalling  frantically.  Sweat  makes 
ridges  on  their  dusty  faces.  When  they  reach 
the  little  town  they  rouse  every  man  they  can 
find  to  inquire  where  the  colonel  is  staying. 
This  is  the  news  they  stammer  out :  the  enemy 
is  four  kilometers  away.  He  is  advancing 
rapidly. 

Then  while  three  colonels  confer  with  the 
commander  of  artillery  in  the  assembly-room 
of  the  town  hall,  in  the  sharp  air  of  the  early 
morning,  the  notes  of  the  reveille  sound  over 

46 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

the  encampments,  sent  by  the  bugles  to  the 
four  winds,  causing  twenty  thousand  men  to 
rise  up  at  one  stroke,  as  if  they  were  springing 
up  out  of  the  ground.  No  wine.  Nothing. 
No  liquor.  Marching  order,  four  abreast  and 
quickly!  Only  the  captain  of  the  8th  says 
to  his  men:  "We  shall  remain  here  to  defend 
the  movement  of  the  troops." 

For  the  entire  length  of  the  village,  in  the 
main  road  bordered  with  hedges,  one  by  one 
the  heavy  field-pieces  of  the  ten  batteries  of 
"155's"  are  lined  up.  But  the  horses  are 
grazing  in  the  fields,  and  not  an  ammunition 
wagon  is  ready  yet.  Meanwhile  a  strange 
order  is  given.  There  is  a  revolution  in  the 
village.  The  women,  in  loose  jackets  and 
night-caps,  come  out  of  their  homes.  There 
are  sobs  and  tears.  Already  the  men  go  to 
the  stables  to  let  out  the  animals,  cows  and 
pigs,  and  drive  them  toward  the  country  and 
neighboring  woods.  For  it  is  necessary  that 
the  whole  village  should  be  evacuated  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour. 

"What  is  going  to  happen ? "  asks  Henri  Le- 
cointre,  contemplating  the  lamentable  exodus 
of  all  these  poor  people,  fleeing  in  the  direc- 

47 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

tion  of  Champ voisy,  carrying,  tied  in  white 
towels,  the  most  precious  of  their  possessions. 

"They  may  fight  here,  perhaps,"  says  Rob- 
ert Picot. 

"It  may  be  so !"  says  the  book-clerk,  trem- 
bling. 

But  no,  it  is  not  yet  time  to  fight.  The 
truth  is  that  three  hundred  meters  from  here 
the  plateau  descends  by  an  abrupt  road  toward 
the  valley;  that  the  rain-storm  has  transformed 
the  road  into  a  mire;  that  the  heavy  ammuni- 
tion wagons,  travelling  in  its  ruts,  are  in  dan- 
ger of  remaining  there,  and  that  the  Germans 
are  on  the  heels  of  the  French  troops.  In  that 
case,  rather  than  abandon  to  the  enemies  these 
fierce  and  terrible  cannon,  that  have  never 
failed  us,  would  it  not  be  better  to  destroy 
them  here,  to  break  them  in  pieces  so  that 
when  the  village  is  reached  the  enemy  will  not 
find  anything  beyond  the  enormous  holes 
where  their  noble  remains  are  buried? 

Hobert  Picot  and  Henri  Lecointre  realize 
tlie  truth  when  they  see  the  major  approach- 
ing, gaze  with  a  long  look  at  the  motionless 
and  unsuspecting  cannon,  and  then  turn  to 
conceal  his  emotion  from  his  astounded  offi- 
cers. 

48 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

In  the  country,  on  the  highways,  in  the 
trampled  oats  are  women  and  children,  drag- 
ging the  pigs,  driving  the  cows,  fleeing  and 
crying;  the  village  is  empty  now  and  appears 
dead;  the  gunners,  mounting  their  horses  as 
they  spur  them  on,  hurry  toward  the  main 
road.  A  dozen  artillerymen  remain  with  two 
non-commissioned  officers  and  the  major. 
On  the  road  the  men  of  the  8th  are  busy  dig- 
ging small  trenches  at  every  turn,  where  can 
be  concealed,  on  their  knees,  thanks  to  the 
bundles  of  fagots,  stations  of  watchers  to 
await  the  arrival  of  the  gray  coats.  The 
fourth  squad  stays  behind  the  longest;  Robert 
Picot  and  Henri  Lecointre,  with  fingers  on 
the  trigger  of  their  guns,  their  red  trousers 
on  the  damp  earth,  are  on  guard.  Suddenly 
they  start.  A  conflagration  in  successive 
bursts  illumines  even  the  light  of  day,  and 
their  eyes  are  still  dimmed  by  the  dazzling 
brightness  as  their  ear-drums  are  rent  with 
the  most  infernal  noise  that  human  ears  are 
able  to  endure.  Fifty  cannon  explode  at  the 
same  moment,  and  apple-trees  laden  with 
apples  are  blown  into  the  air,  and  all  of  Cham- 
pagne trembles.  .  .  . 

Robert  Picot  has  thrown  down  his  gun  with 

49 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

an  angry  gesture  and,  taking  his  head  be- 
tween his  hands,  hides  his  face  in  the  fagots 
protecting  the  trenches. 

"Bundle  of  nerves,"  says  his  friend  to  him. 
"What  is  the  matter ?    Is  it  the  noise ? " 

But  after  waiting  an  instant  Picot  returns 
to  Lecointre  and  uncovers  his  tear-stained 
face.     He  can  only  say  one  thing: 

"  It  is  miserable !  It  is  wretched !  The  fine 
cannon  we  need  so  much  ! " 

Now  a  funereal  silence  broods  over  the 
country.  Smoke  continues  to  rise  over  the 
rumed  village.  The  eyes  of  the  watchers  are 
fixed  on  the  distant  road,  where  they  expect 
the  pointed  hehnets  to  appear.  But  there  is 
nothing.  The  noise  of  whistles  re-echoes.  It 
is  the  order  to  fall  back  to  join  the  main  body 
of  troops.  Then  Lecointre's  disappointment 
breaks  forth: 

"We  cannot  even  discharge  our  guns!" 

The  8th  forms  again  in  a  column,  four 
abreast,  and  advances  into  a  rich  and  quiet 
country.  Rows  of  fine  elms  make  quadrilat- 
erals in  the  midst  of  the  harvested  fields. 
One  might  call  it  a  splendid  French  park. 
But  they  have  reached  the  edge  of  the  pla- 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

teau.  The  prospect  changes  as  an  immense 
panorama  appears.  There  is  a  long  valley 
extending  two  hundred  meters  below  the  road ; 
it  is  misty  and  fresh  in  the  early  morning  air. 
Here  and  there  the  belfries  point  upward 
among  the  trees,  and  a  beautiful  river  non- 
chalantly wanders  along  with  its  silver  wa- 
ters. 

"Look  there,"  says  Picot,  in  ecstasy, 
''what  is  that?" 

Henri  Lecointre  replies:  "You  stupid  mule, 
don't  you  see  that  it  is  the  Marne?" 

On  the  suspension  bridge  spanning  the 
river  between  Verneuil  and  Dormans  we  can 
see  a  mass  of  men.  It  is  the  infantry  falling 
back  on  the  right  bank. 


51 


VIII 

'TTMIE  worst  of  it  all,"  declares  Mademoi- 
X     selle  Louise,  sighing,  "is  not  to  know 
anything  about  them." 

She  speaks  these  words  in  the  same  instant 
in  which  M.  Henri  surveys  the  historic  river 
which  must  still  be  placed  between  the  enemy 
and  our  army.  If  mademoiselle  had  second 
sight  she  would  be  somewhat  reassured.  But 
for  evolving  visions  she  has  nothing  but  a 
tender  and  anxious  heart.  The  truth  is  that 
M.  Henri  has  never  filled  so  large  a  place  in 
the  shop  of  the  Rue  du  Cherche-Midi  as  he 
has  since  the  day  of  his  departure.  Made- 
moiselle Louise  understands  now  how  sweet 
is  the  presence  of  the  loved  one.  It  is  a  trea- 
sure she  had  not  valued  until  it  was  lost. 
And  when  she  says/ 'The  worst  is  not  to  know 
anything  about  them,"  you  have  guessed  that 
you  should  understand:  "The  worst  is  not  to 
know  anything  of  him."  If  she  associates 
Robert  Picot  with  her  regrets,  it  is  out  of  dis- 
cretion; it  is  also  from  politeness  to  her  cousin 

52 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

Edith,  who  is  present.  Madame  and  Made- 
moiselle Bouchaud  left  Choisy-le-Roi  last 
evening.  And  the  Duvals  have  offered  them 
shelter.  This  is  why,  on  this  September 
morning,  in  the  bookseller's  shop,  Xavier  des 
Assernes,  come  to  read  his  new  chapter,  has 
found  one  more  hstener. 

"If  they  were  still  living,"  continues  Edith, 
controlling  her  tears,  "they  would  certainly 
have  found  means  to  send  news  of  them- 
selves." 

"Soldiers,"  says  M.  Duval  stoically,  "think 
now  of  quite  other  things  than  their  sweet- 
hearts. Do  you  imagine  that  they  are  going 
to  waste  their  time  writing  nonsense  to  you  ?  " 

And  turning  toward  des  Assernes: 

"My  dear  master,  if  we  should  listen  to 
these  young  girls,  we  should  become  despon- 
dent. But  I  hope  that  they  may  be  able  to 
say  the  contrary,  that  the  menace  of  the 
enemy  will  not  disturb  the  serenity  of  our 
spirits,  and  that  the  intellectual  life  of  France 
will  continue.  That  is  why  I  beg  you  to 
consent  to  proceed  with  your  reading." 

Customers  hardly  ever  disturb  our  literary 
circle  any  more,  and  the  novelist  can  settle 

53 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

himself  at  ease  in  the  very  middle  of  the  shop. 
Soon  his  voice  begins: 

"Lord  Mainfroy  of  Catalpan  went  through 
the  mountains  to  the  castle  of  his  uncle,  the 
count  of  FoLx,  whose  standard  he  carried. 
And  he  found  many  knights  who,  like  himself, 
were  going  across  the  sea.  But  then  he  drew 
off  his  shoes  and  stockings  and  his  clothes, 
leaving  nothing  but  his  shirt,  and  in  his  shirt 
went  to  the  cathedral,  where  the  bishop 
handed  him  back  his  sword  and  his  pilgrim's 
staff  and  exposed  the  relics  before  him. 

''While  he  still  remained  in  the  chateau  of 
Foix,  a  pious  lady,  one  of  the  devout  women 
living  with  the  countess,  noticed  this  young 
squire  with  proud  bearing  and  gentle  face. 
And  she  remained  quite  pensive.  If  the  good 
countess  of  Foix,  seeing  that  her  devout  at- 
tendant was  disturbed,  had  urged  her  to  con- 
fide her  trouble,  the  lady  would  doubtless 
have  concealed  her  amorous  thoughts.  But 
the  other  devout  ladies  advised  her  to  open 
her  heart  to  the  countess  who  was  the  lord 
of  Catalpan's  aunt.  And  the  countess,  hav- 
ing heard  the  confession  of  this  noble  love, 
went  to  her  nephew  and  spoke  to  him  thus: 

54 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

'Before  you  depart  for  this  voyage,  dear 
nephew,  it  is  strange  to  me  that  you  do  not 
choose  a  lady.  I  know  one  called  Gisele. 
God  made  her  beautiful  in  body,  of  noble 
birth,  and  with  a  rare  character.  If  you 
should  resolve  to  take  her  as  your  wife  on 
your  return  from  this  voyage,  it  would  be  a 
praiseworthy  plan.'  To  which  the  lord  of 
Catalpan  responded:  'Madame,  there  is  no 
woman  so  beautiful  in  heaven  or  hell,  should 
she  be  wiser  than  the  Saracen  queen  of  Sheba, 
or  more  noble  than  the  queen  of  Trebizond, 
or  with  a  more  lovely  face  than  the  queen  of 
France,  who  could  make  me  forget  her  whom 
I  cherish  devotedly,  that  is  to  say,  Mirabelle 
of  Pampeluna.'  After  this  the  squire  de- 
parted, faithful  to  his  lady.  And  he  carried 
the  standard  of  the  count  of  Foix.  And  they 
rode  forty  days  and  forty  nights  until  they 
arrived  at  Aigues-Mortes,  where  the  galleons 
were  waiting.  And  then  the  lord  of  Catal- 
pan and  the  count  of  Argentan  hired  a  gal- 
leon together  and  embarked  on  the  sea  with- 
out fear,  because  God  had  placed  a  courageous 
spirit  in  their  bodies.  And  all  of  the  time 
they  pulled  through  the  seas,  the  knight,  Main- 

55 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

froy,  stayed  in  the  prow  of  the  ship,  his  fore- 
head in  his  hand,  dreaming  of  Mirabelle  of 
Pampeluna." 

Thus  continues  des  Assernes,  while  his  im- 
passive auditors  follow,  according  to  their  dif- 
ferent tastes  and  temperaments,  the  poetry  of 
this  mediaeval  tale.  I  beg  you  to  notice  with 
me  that  the  Germans  are  advancing  each  day 
toward  Paris,  that  the  goods  of  these  four 
persons  and  even  their  lives  are  menaced;  that 
the  most  cruel  disquietude  oppresses  their 
hearts  concerning  those  whom  they  love,  and 
that  no  one  feels  more  than  they  the  great 
and  noble  anguish  of  knowing  that  their 
country  is  in  danger.  But  there  is  in  the 
French  spirit,  at  first  sight,  an  excessive  shy- 
'Qcss,  which  likes  to  conceal  under  an  apparent 
calm  the  most  fiery  emotions  of  the  soul,  and 
also  a  coquetry  which  carries  itself  with  ele- 
gance in  the  midst  of  the  worst  moral  crises. 
And  who  knows  whether  these  four  persons, 
nourished  on  exalted  thoughts,  do  not  find 
comfort  in  reliving  in  this  legend  the  most 
beautiful  years  of  early  French  life,  in  the 
hour  when  France,  and  all  that  she  possesses, 
is  in  the  greatest  peril  she  has  ever  known  ? 

56 


IX 

enri 
of  the  8th,  "the  captain  is  asking  for 


"TECOINTRE,    Henri,"   cries   a   sergeant 


you." 

The  regiment  has  passed  the  night  in  a  set- 
tlement of  three  large  farms  abandoned  by 
their  inhabitants.  At  this  moment  Lecointre 
and  Picot,  with  their  red  trousers  as  their  sole 
garments,  are  washing  their  shirts  in  the 
pond.  It  is  a  luxury  that  has  been  impossi- 
ble for  three  weeks.  But  we  must  acknowl- 
edge that  in  the  weariness  of  the  retreat,  ex- 
hausted by  the  heat,  burning  with  thirst, 
each  one  in  his  turn  surreptitiously  has  un- 
done the  strap  of  his  knapsack,  and  that  now 
all  the  bundles,  one  by  one,  lie  along  the 
roads.  Therefore  they  have  no  change  of 
clothes.  "Lecointre,  Henri,"  dresses  himself 
again  and,  in  the  classic  costume  of  a  flour- 
dealer,  questions  his  friend  anxiously: 

"Hey,  Picot,  is  it  all  right  for  me  to  go  to 
speak  to  the  captain  in  this  rig?" 

"It  is  a  bit  negligee,  old  fellow.    But  slip 

57 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

on  your  greatcoat,  and  put  on  your  necktie 
to  hide  your  undress." 

Near  the  hedge  men  wrangle  for  places  to 
dry  their  Hnen  in  the  sun.  Farther  away,  in 
the  open  air,  others  have  put  thirty  fowls  on 
the  spit.  The  skewers  are  made  of  beech- 
wood  and  blaze  up  from  time  to  time,  so  that 
the  roast  rolls  in  the  ashes,  filling  the  cooks 
with  noisy  glee. 

The  captain  is  quartered  in  one  of  the  farm 
kitchens.  He  is  still  quite  young.  He  says 
to  M.  Henri: 

"Lecointre,  are  you  the  man  for  quite  a 
dangerous  reconnoitring  party?" 

"Yes,  captain." 

"Do  you  know  that  the  Germans  are  hid- 
ing in  the  wood  overlooking  this  place,  oppo- 
site us?" 

"Yes,  captain." 

"Very  well,  we  have  the  order  to  attack 
to-morrow  morning  at  dawn,  the  8th  in  front. 
About  all  this  not  a  word,  Lecointre.  I  count 
on  your  silence." 

"Yes,  captain." 

"But  first  I  need  to  be  certain  about  the 
strength  of  the  enemy  and  their  system  of  de- 

S8 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

fense,  for  we  fear  that  they  have  fortified 
themselves  in  the  wood.  We  need  two  deter- 
mined men,  ready  to  give  their  lives  for  vic- 
tory, who  will  try  to  enter  the  wood  to-night 
to  obtain  information.  You  have  under- 
stood?" 

*'Yes,  captain." 

"Do  you  know  another,  as  courageous  as 
you,  who  will  risk  his  skin  in  the  same  way?" 
"Yes,  captain;  his  name  is  Picot,  Robert. 
He  is  also  in  the  8th." 

The  captain  looks  Lecointre  in  the  eyes. 
He  measures  this  reliable  soldier;  he  estimates 
him  and  he  considers  his  powers.  And  no 
doubt  a  vision  passes  before  his  eyes:  this 
jovial  fellow  knocked  down  on  the  grass,  by  a 
ball,  before  the  attack.  It  would  be  a  pity. 
He  purses  his  mouth  and  shuts  his  eyes  as  if 
there  was  a  grain  of  sand  in  them. 

"In  the  name  of  the  8th  I  thank  you,  Le- 
cointre.   Ah !  I  almost  forgot.    You  are  a 
corporal." 
Monsieur  Henri's  face  shines. 
"Thank  you,  captain." 
Do   you   know   what  occupies   Monsieur 
Henri  almost  as  long  as  the  day  lasts  ?  Well, 

59 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

it  is  to  find  the  insignia  to  sew  on  his  sleeve. 
Of  course  the  outfitting  store  has  gone  to  the 
devil,  and  officer's  stripes  are  not  found  in 
farm  rooms.  Nevertheless,  the  important 
matter  of  this  day  is  not  that  he  is  going  to  be 
killed  during  the  coming  night,  no;  it  is  the 
honor  that  has  just  come  to  him,  it  is  the 
mysterious  thing  that  raises  him  above  his 
squad;  it  is  his  new  rank. 

"You  can't  get  it,"  said  a  sergeant  of  the 
second  section,  in  conclusion.  '*I  have  kept 
my  band  of  stripes  in  the  bottom  of  my 
pocket.  It  was  a  souvenir.  So  much  the 
worse.    Take  it." 

Now  the  night,  already  longer  in  September, 
spreads  over  the  country!  In  the  stables 
and  the  barns  the  men  huddle  up  for  the 
night.  Robert  Picot  and  the  corporal  Le- 
cointre  remain  sitting,  with  pipes  in  their 
mouths,  on  the  edge  of  the  watering-trough. 
When  they  see  that  the  bowls  of  their  pipes 
make  a  red  dot  in  the  darkness,  it  is  because 
the  darkness  is  favorable  and  they  will  leave. 
But  a  curious  thing  happens.  Now  that  their 
comrades  are  sleeping,  invisible  in  their  shel- 
ters, and  the  two  friends  find  themselves  alone 

60 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

in  the  cool  night,  humid  and  threatening,  all 
the  horror  of  peril  is  present  to  their  imagina- 
tion, as  well  as  the  difficulties  of  the  enter- 
prise. 

**It  is  foolish  for  us  to  do  it,"  says  Lecointre. 

"Yes,  it  is  foolish,"  says  Picot.  "We  shall 
certainly  not  return." 

"And  down  there,"  continues  the  corporal, 
"they  will  never  know  how  we  have  fallen." 

A  silence  reigns  while  a  chorus  of  frogs 
swells  in  a  neighboring  pond. 

"Say  then,  Picot,  it  makes  a  confounded 
impression  on  you  to  think  that  we  shall  never 
see  them  again,  doesn't  it?" 

Picot  doesn't  respond.  He  is  not  able  to 
respond.  He  sees  Edith's  charming  eyes 
again  and  her  farewell  smile.  Lecointre  him- 
self sees  Louise  once  more  and  the  paradise  it 
would  have  been  to  be  loved  by  her.  Seated 
on  the  edge  of  a  watering-trough  for  farm 
horses,  Picot  and  Lecointre  coldly  measure 
the  value  of  their  lives,  which  they  are  offer- 
ing to  their  country,  not  suspecting  that  they 
strangely  resemble  their  remote  model,  Main- 
froy  of  Catalpan,  sitting  in  the  bow  of  his 
ship  and  thinking  of  his  lady.    They  are  of 

6i 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

his  race  and  French  knights  like  him,  and 
you  have  observed  it. 

"I  think  that  it  is  time  to  go,"  remarks 
Lecointre. 

"It  is  time,"  replies  Picot  simply. 

They  have  guns  slung  on  their  shoulders, 
and  one  hundred  and  twenty  cartridges  apiece. 
The  night  is  perfectly  dark.  They  skirt  a 
hedge  separating  a  meadow  from  the  harvested 
field  where  they  are  walking.  In  the  meadow 
their  forms  are  better  concealed  than  on  the 
bare  fields.  Both  meadow  and  fields  are  ex- 
posed to  the  observation  of  the  enemy.  Like 
cats,  they  make  a  gap  in  the  hedge  and  slip 
through.  Now  they  have  reached  the  dark 
grass. 

"Let  us  stoop  down,"  says  Picot.  "It  is 
safer." 

I  do  not  know  whether  you  see  clearly  the 
setting  of  the  scene:  land  rising  gently  to  a 
departmental  road  which  encircles  the  foot 
of  the  hill;  near  the  highway  the  slope  de- 
scends abruptly,  bristling  with  young  trees 
and  bushes,  and  about  one  hundred  and 
twenty-four  meters  higher  is  the  beech  wood 
where  the  Germans  are  hiding.     They  are  able 

62 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

to  follow  the  slightest  movements  of  the 
French  regiments  in  the  valley.  Never  mind, 
they  have  not  seen  the  two  black  masses  lying 
in  the  grass.  But  when,  after  having  pro- 
gressed for  twenty  minutes  in  this  very  diffi- 
cult manner,  the  two  friends  leap  over  the 
ditch  bordering  the  road,  and  find  themselves 
on  the  white  highway,  where  their  silhouettes 
are  visible  in  the  night,  fireworks  burst  over- 
head. It  is  the  sentinels  firing  their  guns  on 
the  suspected  shadows.  The  bullets  scatter. 
Instinctively  Lecointre*  falls  and  pretends  to 
be  dead.  Picot  turns  distractedly  to  his  com- 
rade. 

"You  are  hit,  you  poor  old  fellow!" 
The  corporal  almost  wants  to  smile  over 
the  trick  so  well  played.     But  it  is  no  time 
for   playfulness.     He   whispers    imperiously: 
"Stop  fooling  and  do  the  same." 

And  there  are  two  corpses  stretched  in  the 
dust.  Not  a  start.  Not  a  movement.  Not 
a  breath.  A  half-hour  passes.  Then,  imper- 
ceptibly, a  hand  reaches  out,  a  limb  stretches 
itself,  a  foot  moves.  In  a  few  minutes  each 
corpse  covers  several  millimeters.  In  an  hour 
the  two  friends  have  reached   the  thicket. 

63 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

Now  they  are  in  comparative  safety.    The 
rustling  made  by  their  bodies  in  the  branches 
might  be  the  sound  of  animals  in  the  night. 
In  this  instant  their  minds  work  with  ex- 
traordinary clearness.     The  truth  is,  they  are 
sacrificed.     But,  if  they  should  succeed,  what 
a  prize  to-morrow  as  the  reward  of  victory ! 
When  they  place  their  ears  to  the  ground 
they  hear  the  jargon  of  the  Germans.    They 
direct  their  stealthy  course  toward  the  senti- 
nels at  a  distance.    They  creep  in  between 
two  posts.     Something  of  the  intoxication  of 
death  defied,  of  the  success  hoped  for,  of  the 
divine  cause  they  serve,  has  taken  possession 
of  them.    They  are  overexcited,  beside  them- 
selves.   They  can  hardly  keep  from  shoulder- 
ing their  rifles,  when  they  see  the  enemy's 
camp,  where  they  would  like  to  fire  two  hun- 
dred and  forty  bullets.     To  ascertain  all  of 
the  meaning  of  this  German  advance-guard, 
it  would  be  necessary  to  reach  the  platform, 
which  is  impossible.     But  from  the  under- 
brush where  they  are  hiding  they  can  see  the 
forms  rolled  in  their  blankets,  sleeping  on  the 
moss  and  without  fortification.     It  is  a  tem- 
porary camp:  the  Boches  are  certaiuly  not 

64 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

prepared  for  the  French  menace.  They  still 
expect  to  make  further  progress  toward  Paris 
to-morrow. 

Then,  with  scratched  faces  and  bloody 
hands,  the  book-clerk  and  the  glove-seller  let 
themselves  fall  gently  into  the  ravine,  catch- 
ing themselves  here  and  there  on  the  rocks 
and  branches. 


6S 


X 


MADEMOISELLE  LOUISE  has  uttered 
a  cry  in  sorting  the  mail: 
"A  letter  from  Monsieur  Henri !" 
The  letter  is  dated  the  loth  of  September. 
It  has  taken  seven  days  to  come  from  the 
front.  What  difference  does  it  make  ?  It  has 
arrived  and  now  Mademoiselle  Louise,  white 
as  death,  her  two  elbows  on  the  counter  and 
her  forehead  in  her  hands,  reads  and  rereads 
it  without  being  able  to  take  her  eyes  away. 
I  will  tell  you,  moreover,  what  the  letter  con- 
tains: 

"My  dear  Louise,  I  love  you  and  we  are 
victorious.  These  are  the  two  great  pieces  of 
news,  these  are  the  two  splendid  facts,  this  is 
all  that  fills  my  soul,  and  I  am  beside  myself 
as  I  write.  I  knew  what  it  was  to  love  you, 
Louise,  but  I  did  not  know  what  one  experi- 
ences when  he  sees  his  country  invaded,  and 
when  he  recovers  it  again,  and  when  before 
his  gun  the  enemies  scatter  like  rabbits.  I 
know  it  now  and  I  love  you  all  the  more. 

66 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

When  I  fight  it  is  of  you  that  I  think,  I  do 
not  want  these  brigands  to  reach  Paris,  and 
it  seems  to  me  that  it  was  you  they  injured 
in  injuring  France.  And  when,  in  their  daily 
orders,  our  superior  officers  talk  of  the  France 
for  which  we  must  all  die  if  it  is  necessary, 
the  vision  I  see  has  your  large  black  eyes  and 
your  thoughtful  brow,  and  the  grave  smile  of 
your  mouth. 

"Louise,  I  do  not  know  anything  about 
you  now.  Have  you  never  written  me? 
Don't  you  receive  my  letters?  I  have  told 
you  that  we  were  forced  to  cross  the  Mame 
and  that  we  fell  back  sadly.  These  are  the 
terrible  days  that  I  want  to  forget.  But  day 
before  yesterday  an  order  came  to  take  the 
offensive.  Picot  and  I  were  intrusted  with 
quite  a  difficult  mission.  It  was  to  go,  before 
the  attack,  and  observe  the  enemy's  position 
in  a  wood  overlooking  us.  Tell  Mademoiselle 
Edith  that  Picot  is  brave  as  anything.  In 
spite  of  his  nervous  manner,  he  never  loses  his 
composure.  He  stood  by  me  splendidly  in 
this  enterprise  when  death  awaited  us  every 
second.  We  were  able  to  inform  our  supe- 
riors as  to  the  situation  of  the  Boches,  and  the 

67 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

sun  had  not  yet  risen  in  the  morning  when 
we  charged  toward  the  small  forest.  The 
bugles  sounded  like  mad.  It  was  as  if, 
hidden  behind  the  stack  where  they  had 
shielded  themselves,  they  had  gone  crazy. 
Our  poor  captain  fell  the  first,  hit  in  the  fore- 
head by  a  bullet.  For  from  above,  as  they 
scrambled  up,  four  machine-guns  stopped  the 
besiegers,  and  I  assure  you  that  all  of  those 
who  started  did  not  reach  the  summit.  But, 
upon  my  word,  those  who  put  their  feet  on 
the  plateau  had  the  best  of  it !  Ah  !  what  hel- 
ter-skelter confusion  among  the  Boches !  In 
five  seconds  the  wood  was  empty. 

"  Then  we  turned  around  and  looked  at  the 
valley  below.  I  shall  never  forget  the  shock 
of  astonishment  at  the  sight  of  that  immense 
army,  an  ocean  of  red  trousers  rushing  along 
all  of  the  southern  roads.  They  were  in 
the  fields,  the  meadows,  and  the  farmyards. 
They  swarmed  at  a  distance  along  the  roads, 
and  they  advanced,  they  advanced  without 
ceasing  behind  us,  to  fling  themselves  into  the 
pursuit  of  the  gray  beasts. 

"Soon  all  this  mass,  formed  into  divisions, 
began  the  chase  methodically.     We  no  longer 

68 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

marched,  we  flew.  We  crossed  the  wood,  the 
fields  of  lucern  or  oats,  and  went  through  the 
villages.  We  crossed  the  streams  on  the  plank 
of  the  sluice-gates.  We  finally  arrived  in  sight 
of  a  large  town.  They  told  me  it  was  Eper- 
nay.  The  Marne  wound  in  and  out  over  the 
landscape.  At  this  instant  there  was  a  great 
explosion,  as  if  the  town  were  crumbling  to 
pieces.  It  was  the  dirty  beasts  tr>'ing  to  blow 
up  the  bridge  behind  us  to  keep  us  back. 
But  the  Marne,  we  were  quite  content  to  cross 
it  again,  which  we  easily  did  by  swimming. 
We  made  a  detour  and  reached  it  again  and 
the  pursuit  continued. 

"  I  am  writing  these  lines  in  the  corner  of  a 
little  wood,  where  I  am  crouched  in  one  of  the 
trenches  we  have  now  dug  to  protect  ourselves 
against  a  possible  return  of  the  enemy.  It  is 
on  a  height  overlooking  the  country,  and  I  see 
in  the  fog  below,  fifteen  kilometers  from  here, 
the  cathedral  of  Rheims,  with  its  lonely  aspect 
in  a  desert  of  mist.  I  can  distinguish  its  noble 
structure  and  two  square  towers.  So  all  of 
my  French  history  is  spread  out  before  my 
eyes.  To-morrow  we  are  going  to  retake 
Rheims,  Louise.    And  I  am  glad  to  live,  for  if 

69 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

I  am  not  dead,  I  was  within  an  ace  of  it,  and 
I  cannot  bear  to  leave  you.  But  I  have  done 
my  duty,  and  I  believe  that  you  will  not  be 
ashamed  of  me  and  I  love  you." 

This  is  the  contents  of  the  first  love  letter 
which  Mademoiselle  Louise  has  received  in 
her  life.  Do  you  think  that  the  lord  Main- 
froy  of  Catalpan,  whom  we  have  left  in  the 
prow  of  his  ship  thinking  of  Mirabelle  of  Pam- 
peluna  and  eager  to  kill  the  Saracens,  could 
have  spoken  any  better? 


70 


XI 

THE  war  has  continued  for  nine  months. 
After  the  cruel  winter  the  April  sun 
shows  itself  at  last.  The  little  flowers  bud 
and  open  on  the  breastwork  of  the  trenches. 
Robert  Picot,  who  is  now  adjutant  of  the 
8th,  thus  outstripping  Monsieur  Henri,  who 
is  still  wearing  his  sergeant  stripes,  exclaims 
lightly  this  morning: 

"It  must  be  fine  at  Choisy-le-Roi." 

"Pity  yourself,  old  man;  you  will  pass  the 
spring  in  the  wood  ! " 

Monsieur  Henri  speaks  thus  to  put  him  on 
the  wrong  scent.     He  really  thinks: 

"How  beautiful  it  must  be  in  the  Rue  du 
Cherche-Midi!" 

The  wood  in  question,  besides,  has  no 
foHage.  It  would  be  better  to  call  this  place 
an  enormous  wood-yard  of  old  buildings  where 
the  planks  stand  upright  in  various  places.  It 
is  impossible  to  tell,  from  these  broken  posts, 
whether  it  is  really  springtime.    But,  strange 

71 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

to  say,  one  hears  at  the  same  time  the  cannon 
and  the  larks.  The  Uttle  Gallic  bird  is  not 
frightened  away  by  anything  so  small.  We 
are  here  in  Lorraine,  in  the  open  forest  of 
Parroy.  There  is  a  vague  rumor  that  an 
attack  is  to  be  undertaken  in  two  or  three 
days,  perhaps  to-morrow.  It  fills  the  air  with 
electricity.  Whispers  circulate  in  the  trenches. 
They  are  obliged  to  stop  the  talk  of  the  bab- 
blers. Every  one  is  excited.  In  the  lodgings 
of  the  non-commissioned  officers,  at  meal- 
time, one  hears  laughter  that  must  be  sup- 
pressed at  the  thought  of  the  Boches,  scarcely 
one  hundred  meters  away.  I  shall  not  deny 
that  there  is  a  little  nervousness  in  this 
gayety.  Existence  is  brief.  They  say  that 
it  will  last  until  to-morrow.  From  now  until 
then  it  seems  as  if  every  moment  were  brief, 
terribly  fugitive,  and  at  the  same  time  delight- 
ful. A  little  sergeant,  twenty  years  old,  ex- 
hibits the  picture  of  his  sweetheart.  The  chief 
of  the  mess,  the  sergeant-major,  a  territorial, 
relates  how  he  was  married  by  proxy.  Lecoin- 
tre  smokes  his  pipe  in  silence.  In  his  pocket- 
book  against  his  heart  is  a  piece  of  paper 
which  burns  a  little.    It  is  a  letter  from  Made- 

72 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

moiselle  Louise,  and  it  is  so  nice,  this  letter  is 
so  nice,  that  he  could  not  help  reading  it  to 
Picot.  Picot  is  happy  for  Lecointre,  but  he 
himself  is  sad.  There  is  no  danger  that  Made- 
moiselle Edith  will  write  him  the  little  noth- 
ings that  go  to  the  heart  of  a  man,  such  as: 
"This  morning,  when  I  woke,  my  first  thought 
was  of  you."  Lucky  fellow,  that  Lecointre ! 
Picot  did  not  demand  as  much  of  Mademoi- 
selle Edith.  Only  a  little  less  ceremony  in 
her  letters. 

"Ah!"  says  the  sergeant-major  with  ani- 
mation, "let  us  hope  for  the  end,  when  each 
of  us  will  return  to  his  own  afifairs !" 

"If  only  we  don't  stick,  to-morrow,  on  the 
barbed  wire,"  says  the  Httle  sergeant. 

But  he  has  not  finished  his  sentence  when  a 
cataclysm  throws  them  to  the  ground,  be- 
spattered with  sand  and  clay.  It  seems  as  if 
a  whole  express-train  were  hurling  itself  upon 
them,  to  crush  them  into  the  ground.  In 
fact,  it  is  a  great  shell  exploding  on  its  arrival 
in  their  trench.  Adjutant  Picot  stands  up- 
right the  first  and  questions:  "No  casualties 
here?" 

The  little  sergeant  sneezes,  runs  his  fingers 

73 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

through  his  hair,  and  flings  forth  the  usual 
phrase: 

"As  many  are  killed  as  wounded,  no  one  is 
dead." 

"You  see,  by  heaven,  that  one  always 
escapes,"  says  the  territorial. 

Lecointre  slips  his  hand  under  his  great- 
coat to  assure  himself  that  Louise's  letter  is 
always  there. 

Now  the  day  declines.  The  first  recon- 
noitring rocket  of  electric  blue  flares  up  from 
the  Boches.  From  a  sector  to  one  side  comes 
a  noise  of  firing.  The  small  crescent  of  the 
moon  appears  in  the  sky  over  the  jagged  top 
of  a  pine-tree.  Sergeant  Lecointre  makes  his 
round  to  inspect  the  men  on  the  battlement. 
He  meets  Picot  conducting  a  gang  of  work- 
men: 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

The  words  are  scarcely  spoken,  but  whis- 
pered as  if  it  were  at  the  bedside  of  an  in- 
valid. The  light  of  the  blinding  rockets  is 
reflected  from  time  to  time  on  the  faces  of  the 
two  friends  lost  in  the  darkness  of  the  sub- 
soil. 

"  The  commandant  has  sent  me  down  there 

74 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

to  the  listening  post  to  build  a  lookout.  You 
see,  they  are  carrying  the  planks." 

"Nasty  business,  old  fellow;  look  out  for 
yourself." 

"Do  you  think  so?  There  is  no  danger," 
says  Picot. 

However,  they  press  each  other's  hands  in 
parting. 

By  the  branch  of  the  trench,  so  deep  that 
its  wall  is  half  a  meter  higher  than  the  tallest 
man,  Picot  goes  to  the  listening  post.  This 
April  night  bathed  in  moonlight  is  a  little  in- 
toxicating. Picot  remembers  certain  walks 
on  the  border  of  the  Seine  in  Edith  Bouchaud's 
company  on  similar  moonlight  nights.  One 
did  not  hear  the  cannon,  or  the  crackling  of 
the  guns,  for  instance.  He  was  his  own  mas- 
ter, at  home  on  good  French  soil.  How  happy 
he  was  then,  and  how  he  thirsts  this  evening 
to  be  happy  again  !  It  seems  to  him  at  times 
that  the  slender  form  of  Edith  is  enfolded  in 
his  arms,  and  that  he  is  carrying  her  away 
with  him,  tenderly,  in  the  blue  Ught.  She  will 
not  ever  know  the  important  mission  that  has 
come  to  him  to-day,  in  expectation  of  the  next 
attack.     However,  he  does  not  feel  the  slight- 

75 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

est  beating  of  his  heart,  and  he  says  to  him- 
self that  perhaps,  if  she  were  able  to  see  him 
here,  this  evening,  she  would  love  him  because 
he  is  brave. 

There  are  three  gunners  for  the  machine- 
guns  in  the  post,  and  four  simple  fellows  on 
guard,  of  whom  one  is  on  the  lookout.  The 
arrival  of  the  adjutant  is  greeted  with  silence, 
for  this  is  the  kingdom  of  mutes.  Picot  Hs- 
tens. 

"Fritz!  Fritz!"  calls  a  voice  in  the  night. 

That  comes  from  the  Boche  trench,  twenty 
meters  away.  They  are  seen  through  the 
loop-hole,  describing  an  arc  of  an  immense 
circle  which  seems  to  hem  in  our  line.  But 
through  this  hole  observation  is  difficult. 
Picot  understands  the  major's  wish.  He  be- 
gins to  clear  off  the  parapet,  that  he  may 
wedge  in  slabs  of  wood  horizontally  two  or 
three  millimeters  apart  and  replace  bags  of 
earth  above.  Then  they  have  a  magnificent 
observation  post,  thanks  to  this  improvised 
ledge.  Upon  my  word,  the  first  who  climbs 
upon  this  parapet  will  risk  a  great  deal,  in 
spite  of  the  tacit  understanding  that  one 
hardly  fires  at  the  listening  post  from  one  line 

76 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

to  another.  The  workers  look  questioningly 
at  Picot,  anxiously  trying  to  find  out  who  he 
will  appoint  for  the  work. 

"Give  me  your  pick,"  he  says  to  one  of  the 
men. 

"Here  it  is,  lieutenant." 

And  clinging  to  the  projection  in  the  wall, 
he  leaps  upon  the  parapet  and  begins  to  dig. 
Oh,  he  works  quickly.  The  men  in  the  oppo- 
site observation  post  are  no  doubt  transfixed 
with  amazement,  but  during  the  few  minutes 
that  the  operation  lasts  not  a  gun  is  fired 
there.  Here  the  men  hold  their  breath.  At 
a  sign  the  adjutant  has  the  boards  placed  in 
the  prepared  hole.  Below  nothing  stirs.  Now 
the  last  plank  is  wedged  in.  Picot  calculates 
the  advantage  it  will  be  to-morrow  to  observe 
from  there  without  being  seen.  A  glow  of 
satisfaction  fills  his  soul.  There  is  nothing 
more  to  do  but  replace  the  sacks  on  the 
ground.  Suddenly  there  is  the  fatal  click  of 
a  gun,  a  man  in  the  throes  of  death,  a  mass 
falling  down  in  the  post.  Well  aimed  !  The 
adjutant's  chest  is  penetrated  by  a  bullet. 

Robert  Picot  breathes  heavily.  The  be- 
loved form  that  shortly  before  seemed  folded 

77 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

in  his  arms  now  bends  over  his  face.  He 
thinks  then:  "It  is  ended,  I  am  dying,  I  am 
losing  her  forever."  In  this  moment  his  chest 
seems  to  burst,  his  ribs  are  torn  to  pieces, 
warm  blood  rises  to  his  mouth  and  he  cannot 
breathe.  And  at  the  same  time  that  a  volley 
of  shots  rends  the  air,  men  are  heard  crying  in 
a  low  voice  the  dismal  call: 
"Stretcher-bearers ! . . .  Stretcher-bearers ! " 


78 


XII 

THE  same  April  sun  that  bathes  the  front 
and  makes  the  wet  trenches  smoke  be- 
tween Nieuport  and  the  Vosges  shines  also  in 
the  Rue  du  Cherche-Midi  and  throws  a  bright 
ray  into  M.  Duval's  shop,  where  des  Assernes 
makes  his  spring  appearance. 

"The  official  news  is  not  bad,"  says  the 
bookseller,  "but  here  it  is  said  that  the  bri- 
gands are  poisoning  our  poor  soldiers  with 
their  asphyxiating  gas  in  the  Ypres  sector." 

"Are  they  speaking  of  Lorraine  ?  "  questions 
Louise,  as  she  adds  her  accounts  at  the  desk. 

But  des  Assernes  speaks  in  a  low  voice: 

"These  asphyxiating  gases,  these  inflamma- 
ble liquids  and  all  these  barbarous  proceed- 
ings that  modern  warfare  had  banished  and 
which  the  barbarians  have  found  necessary  to 
use  again  I  find  in  another  form  in  the  epic  of 
the  lord  of  Catalpan.  When  a  tempest  on 
the  sea  had  driven  his  ship  and  all  the  flotilla 
carrying  the  French  army  in  sight  of  the  Sar- 
acen country,  the  amber-colored  figures  of  the 

79 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

Turks  appeared  on  the  shore,  gesticulating  like 
savages.  And  I  imagine  that  this  must  have 
been  to  these  good  French  gentlemen,  as  naive 
as  they  were  fearless,  like  a  vision  of  devils. 
But  even  from  the  sea  they  began  the  battle 
and  tried  to  shoot  their  arrows.  Do  you  know 
how  the  Saracens  repHed?  Well,  before  the 
knight  of  Mirabelle,  accompanied  by  his 
friend,  the  count  d'Argentan,  had  landed,  or, 
rather,  left  his  ship  to  go  through  the  shallow 
water  to  the  shore,  they  were  attacked  by 
Greek  fire,  and  urns  full  of  lime  were  hurled 
at  them  by  the  engines  of  the  infidel.  You 
know  that  Greek  fire  burns  in  the  water,  and 
that  it  was  able  to  encircle  these  small  ships. 
Such  an  attack  was  calculated  to  shake  the 
resolution  of  my  leonine  knight.  It  is  then 
that,  according  to  the  Languedoc  troubadour, 
this  subHme  dialogue  took  place  between 
Mainfroy  and  the  count  d'Argentan:  *My 
lord,  we  are  lost,  for  these  demons  want  to 
burn  us  like  torches,'  says  the  count.  'Sir,' 
says  Mainfroy,  'it  is  better  to  burn  here 
below  for  the  glory  of  the  kingdom  of  France, 
than  to  burn  in  hell  for  mortal  sins.'  'But,' 
says  the  count,  'if  we  were  burned  in  these 

80 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

ships,  then  we  could  not  serve  the  kingdom 
of  France  any  more,  nor  fight  the  infidels. 
Call  the  sailors  to  put  the  ship  out  to  sea  so 
that  we  may  save  ourselves  and  escape  the 
flames.'  'Sir/  says  the  knight,  *it  is  an 
ugly  thing  to  flee.  I  have  come  to  Barbary 
for  the  honor  of  France  and  the  glory  of  my 
lady  who  Hves  in  her  castle  of  Pampeluna.  I 
would  rather  a  thousand  times  be  burned  to 
cinders  here  than  return  to  her  in  a  state  of 
disgrace  and  confusion.'  And  my  author 
adds  that  with  those  words,  facing  flaming 
projectiles,  the  two  lords  remained  standing 
behind  their  shield,  whose  point  was  driven 
in  the  deck  of  the  ship.  What  a  picture ! 
What  a  sight !  All  of  the  caravels  kept  to- 
gether under  the  rain  of  fire  thrown  toward 
them  by  the  mangonels  on  the  shore,  and 
at  the  bow  of  each  ship,  while  the  sailors 
rowed,  the  knights  remained  immovable, 
waiting  to  be  burned  or  to  see  the  battle. 
Then  the  heavens  were  in  such  a  state  of  con- 
tinuous agitation  that  the  elements  aided  the 
knights:  the  wind  changed  and  carried  the 
fire  back  toward  the  villains,  so  well  that  it 
was  the  crafty  Saracens  who  ended  by  being 

Si 


!  MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

burned  alive,  near  their  own  contrivances. 
At  this  moment  the  ship  struck  against  a  sand- 
bank.   The  good  knights,  the  water  reaching 
up  to  their  coats,  walked,  the  shield  in  their 
hands  and  their  lances  pointed  toward  the 
infidels.     Mainfroy  of  Catalpan  went  by  the 
side  of  the  count  of  Foix,  who  carried  the 
standard.     And  he  held  it  in  his  hand  with 
such  assurance  that  all  of  the  men  at  arms 
were  filled  with  his  courage.     The  infidels  gave 
way  everywhere  when  he  showed  himself. 
They   fought   even   in   the   narrow   Saracen 
streets.    The  town  was  half  taken.    The  king 
of  France  had  already  delivered  many  Chris- 
tians who  had  been  groaning  in  the  prisons 
for  long  years,  when  an  arrow,  shot  by  a 
famous  archer  lying  in  wait  for  the  valorous 
knight,  struck  the  chest  of  Mainfroy  of  Catal- 
pan.   He  fell,  banner  in  hand,  on  the  border 
of  a  gushing  fountain  at  the  intersection  of 
four  streets.     The  enemies  bound  him  with 
chains  and  carried  him  on  their  horses  with 
savage  cries." 

"But  did  the  crusaders  take  the  whole  vil- 
lage?" inquires  Mademoiselle  Louise. 

"Ah!  Ah!  young  lady!"  exclaims  des  As- 

82 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

sernes,  "that  is  a  fair  question,  and  truly 
French  curiosity.  The  result  of  our  fighting 
in  an  imaginary  battle  taking  place  in  the 
thirteenth  century  concerns  your  heart  more 
than  the  fate  of  a  hero  with  whom  you  never- 
theless seem  to  me  to  be  in  love  to  a  certain 
extent!  You  may  know  that  the  town  was 
taken  by  the  king  of  France,  and  that  soon 
the  beautiful  Mirabelle  in  her  chateau  of 
Pampeluna  was  warned  by  a  dream  of  the 
captivity  of  her  knight." 

"At  that  time,"  observes  Madame  Duval 
judiciously,  "there  were  no  postal  districts." 

"Precisely,  madame,"  says  des  Assernes, 
"but  also  the  good  God  will  send  you  dreams 
to  keep  you  in  touch  with  what  happens  to 
the  dear  absent  ones.     It  is  very  poetic." 

"I  see  just  now  the  postman  crossing  the 
street,"  says  M.  Duval,  "and  because  I  don't 
despise  my  epoch,  I  would  rather  receive  a 
letter  from  my  brave  Lecointre  than  to  dream 
of  these  pictures  of  the  past." 

They  do  not  speak  any  more,  they  wait; 
they  are  more  or  less  in  suspense,  concentrated 
on  the  movements  of  the  postman,  who  seems 
to  take  a  haughty  pride  in  being  wanted. 

^3 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

The  dispenser  of  news,  locking  up  in  his  mys- 
terious box  all  joys  and  griefs,  knows  that 
eyes  are  following  his  smallest  step.  He  does 
not  hurry.    He  has  plenty  of  time. 

Here  at  last  is  a  letter  from  Monsieur 
Henri !  It  is  for  Louise,  and  Louise  utters  a 
cry  as  she  reads  it:  ''My  God!  Monsieur 
Robert  is  terribly  wounded!" 

Ignoring  the  sentimental  lines  of  the  mis- 
sive, concerning  no  one  but  herself,  Made- 
moiselle Louise  reads  aloud  to  her  startled 
auditors  the  heroic  story.  Robert  Picot,  the 
little  glove-seller  of  the  Meilleur  Marche,  the 
angler,  is  fallen,  braving  danger,  for  France 
and  for  those  he  loves,  like  the  lord  of  Catal- 
pan,  the  leonine  cavalier.  Both  received  the 
same  wound. 

"Robert  is  a  hero,"  wrote  Sergeant  Le- 
cointre.  "His  men  are  still  under  the  spell 
of  their  enthusiasm.  I  saw  one  of  them  cry- 
ing, thinking  that  he  was  dead.  Alas !  he  is 
not  likely  to  recover.  His  wound  is  one  that 
rarely  heals." 

The  people  in  the  shop  are  stupefied.  They 
remember  the  delightful  Sundays  at  Choisy: 
sun,  verdure,  soft  rippling  of  water  on  the 

84 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

bank ;  the  rocking  of  the  yawl  anchored  under 
the  silver  willows;  abundant  dinners,  legs  of 
mutton  dripping  with  juice,  golden,  tender 
chickens,  fragrant  strawberries  under  the  buzz 
of  a  stray  wasp  in  the  Henri  II  dining-room. 
And  they  see  once  more  the  self-eflfacing  per- 
sonality, timid  and  silent,  of  Monsieur  Rob- 
ert, his  eyes  shy  and  glowing  in  his  sallow 
face. 

"He  never  had  any  chance!"  declares  the 
bookseller. 

"Such  a  charming  boy!"  continues  Ma- 
dame Duval  with  further  praise. 

"And  who  loved  Edith  so  much!"  adds 
Louise. 

A  silence  follows,  wet  with  furtive  tears. 
Des  Assernes  sits  dreaming.  He  thinks  of 
this  army  of  young  men  whose  narrow  outlook 
and  small  ambitions  he  deplored,  before  the 
war.  "Paladins !  Paladins ! "  he  murmurs  to 
himself  now,  quite  beside  himself  with  melan- 
choly excitement;  "who  was  then  mistaken, 
you  or  we?  We  have,  ourselves,  committed 
the  sin  of  not  believing  in  you,  and  of  mis- 
understanding you,  and  of  thinking  that 
France  is  decadent.    And  here  you  are  show- 

85 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

ing  yourselves  glorious  each  day.  Alas !  Will 
you  all  remain  there?  Will  he  not  return?" 
"Do  you  remember,"  sighs  the  excellent 
Madame  Duval,  "the  day  he  caught  the  four- 
pound  pike?" 


86 


XIII 

Now  Louise  Duval  at  her  uncle  Bou- 
chaud's  side  travels  in  the  Choisy-le- 
Roi  train  across  the  market-garden  country 
full  of  memories. 

"It  is  better  for  you  to  come  with  me,  my 
dear  Louise,"  says  the  good  uncle,  assuming 
a  very  stolid  air  (a  department  head  does  not 
fall  into  a  fainting  fit  because  one  of  his  clerks 
has  his  lungs  pierced  by  a  Boche  bullet.  A 
man  is  a  man,  by  Jove  .  .  .).  "It  will  be 
better  on  Edith's  account,  for,  to  tell  the 
truth,  he  was  her  lover.  Young  girls  under- 
stand each  other.  They  can  tell  such  things 
in  a  delicate  way  without  being  upset  by  it. 
And  then  Edith  is  reserved.  One  doesn't 
know  exactly  what  she  is  thinking  about.  She 
was  formerly  a  little  haughty  with  this  poor 
Picot;  now  I  imagine  that  she  is  softened;  I 
thought  that  I  noticed  sometimes  that  her  ex- 
pression changed  when  she  received  his  letters. 
After  all,  perhaps,  I  am  mistaken.  With 
you  young  ladies,  one  is  always  perplexed. 

87 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

Never  mind,  you  manage  it  all,  my  dear 
Louise,  so  that  it  is  not  too  severe  a  blow. 
Poor  Picot !  After  all,  he  was  an  outsider  to 
us.  On  the  front,  we  know  well  that  there 
must  be  wounds.  Isn't  it  true  that  others 
have  fallen,  and  that  still  others  will  fall  ?  It 
is  war.  But,  do  you  know,  my  lass,  this  boy 
.  .  .  this  boy  .  .  ." 

The  department  head  stops,  his  face  all  at 
once  very  red.  With  a  motion  he  drops  the 
window,  breathes  a  whiff  of  fresh  air,  rolls  his 
wild  eyes,  and  ends  by  confessing  heavily: 

*'He  was  like  a  son  to  me ! " 

Louise  is  warm-hearted.  She  is  also  very 
much  agitated.  Especially  as  they  are  arriv- 
ing at  Choisy  and  the  moment  is  approaching 
when  she  must  torture  the  heart  of  her  dear 
Edith.  Louise  knows  Edith's  secret.  The 
glove-seller  has  become  a  hero.  It  was  all  that 
was  lacking  to  awaken  love  in  the  enthusiastic 
heart  of  Mademoiselle  Bouchaud.  The  two 
young  girls  now  are  also  consumed  with 
anxiety  for  each  other.  What  will  happen  to 
Edith  when  she  hears  of  the  wounding  of  her 
knight ! 

The  April  twilight  is  stealing  over  the  vil- 

88 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

lage  of  Choisy.  The  stone  summer-house  can 
be  seen  at  a  distance,  already  wrapped  in 
shadows.  The  windows  are  closed.  "How 
sad  it  all  looks!"  thinks  Louise.  The  niece 
and  lancle  climb  the  front  steps.  Some  one 
opens  the  door.  Madame  Bouchaud  and  her 
daughter  are  silently  embroidering  under  the 
lamp.  Cries  of  surprise.  Emotion.  What  a 
pleasure  !  Here  is  Louise !  The  parents  un- 
derstand each  other  at  once  with  a  glance. 
They  leave  the  two  cousins  together.  See 
how  Louise's  tears  run  down  her  cheeks. 
Edith  is  dismayed.  She  neither  questions  nor 
entreats.  As  Papa  Bouchaud  says,  young 
girls  understand  each  other.  One  tear  was 
enough.  Edith  has  turned  pale;  she  murmurs, 
as  if  half  unconscious :     "  Robert  is  killed ! " 

"No,  my  dear,  no,"  replies  Louise,  with  a 
thousand  caresses,  "  they  will  save  him,  on  the 
contrary.  Only  wounded !  And  under  such 
glorious  circumstances.  Henri  wrote  to  me, 
you  know.     Robert  is  a  hero." 

She  has  done  well.  Edith's  sorrow  bursts 
forth.  There  are  convulsive  sobs  and  floods 
of  tears  and  broken  confessions  of  a  tender 
heart  unloading  itself. 

.      89 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

"I  love  him  so  much  now,  Louise,  if  you 
knew.  I  felt  that  I  was  about  to  lose  him. 
.  .  .  Each  day  I  am  more  attached  to  him 
.  .  .  but  I  do  not  dare  tell  him  .  .  .  What  a 
fool  I  was,  my  God !  You  understand,  Lou- 
ise, when  he  was  employed  in  the  Meilleur 
Marche  I  despised  him.  Do  you  remember? 
I  said  to  you :  '  It  is  so  commonplace  to  marry 
a  clerk ! '  The  truth  is  that  I  did  not  know 
Robert.  Evidently  one  has  no  need  of  hero- 
ism to  sell  gloves.  It  would  have  been  ridicu- 
lous to  use  it  there  where  it  was  so  little 
needed.  But  I  demanded  it  at  any  cost.  I 
said  to  you:  'If  only  he  were  an  aviator!' 
And  he  noticed  my  scorn.  Meanwhile,  he 
possessed  all  the  qualities  of  his  own  spirit 
and  I  would  not  see  them.  Now  I  do  not 
dare  to  tell  him  straightforwardly  what  I  feel 
for  him.  That  is  to  say,  yesterday,  I  did  not 
venture.  My  God !  My  God !  Why  did  I 
not  tell  him  before  he  dies?" 

"But,  my  dear,  we  hope  that  he  will  soon 
recover." 

And  Louise  discusses  before  her  distracted 
cousin  each  one  of  the  expressions  of  the  letter 
scribbled  by  Monsieur  Henri: 

90 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

''He  lost  much  blood;  the  stretcher-bearers 
dressed  his  wounds  thoroughly  in  the  trench 
itself;  then  the  brave  men,  very  gently,  laid 
him  out  on  the  stretcher  and  carried  him  as 
one  carries  a  cradle,  keeping  step,  in  time.  He 
was  quite  conscious." 

"You  see,"  moans  Edith,  "he  lost  much 
blood ;  it  must  have  been  a  hemorrhage !  But 
no,  just  a  simple  dressing  was  enough.  And 
notice  this— 'he  was  quite  conscious !'  " 

"At  the  relief  station  our  Httle  assistant  doc- 
tor, who  performs  miracles,  was  agitated  when 
he  recognized  him,  for  they  ate  together  at  the 
mess  of  the  non-commissioned  officers.  He 
could  only  say:  'Ah !  my  poor  Picot !'  Then 
it  seemed  as  if  Picot  smiled  as  he  said :  '  I  am 
done  for ! '  But  the  doctor  replied :  '  You  still 
have  a  good  brain ! '  And  he  went  down  on 
his  knees  to  care  for  his  wound  and  pour  tinc- 
ture of  iodine  on  it.  And  as  that  is  frightfully 
painful,  he  held  him  and  pressed  his  hand  at 
the  same  time." 

"If  I  had  only  been  there!"  murmurs 
Edith,  hiding  her  face  on  Louise's  shoulder. 

As  this  moment  some  one  opens  the  door 
timidly.     Edith  straightens  up  and  wipes  her 

91 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

eyes,  and  they  see  Monsieur  Bouchaud  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  standing  in  the  doorway  without 
venturing  to  come  in.  He  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  to  know  how  the  little  one 
had  received  the  shock.  Ah !  he  was  very 
much  afraid  of  this  recoil.  A  father  senses 
things  without  being  told.  Unfortunately  he 
feels  that  he  is  awkward  in  offering  consolation 
in  a  sorrowful  love-affair. 

"Don't  be  worried,  Httle  daughter,"  he 
murmurs.     "It  doesn't  help  anything." 

But  you  may  easily  imagine  that  the  excel- 
lent advice  is  without  effect  on  Edith's  spirit, 
and  her  tears,  on  the  contrary,  flow  faster  than 
ever.  Then  Monsieur  Bouchaud  comes  for- 
ward, playing  with  the  gold  watch-charm  orna- 
menting his  waistcoat.  He  is  desperate  not 
knowing  the  words  of  comfort  to  speak  to  his 
httle  one.  He  ends  by  putting  his  shirt- 
sleeves around  her  as  he  says,  quite  simply, 
crying  at  the  same  time:  "My  poor  httle 
rabbit  .  .  ." 

"Now,"  continues  Louise,  who  is  reading 
the  letter,  "my  brave  friend  is  being  treated 
in  a  good  hospital  in  Luneville,  twelve  kilo- 
meters from  here.     He  is  well  cared  for.     In 

92 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

spite  of  the  gravity  of  his  wound,  we  are  able 
to  hope  that  he  may  live." 

But  now  Edith  raises  her  head.  Instantly 
her  tears  are  dried  up.  Her  lovely  blue  eyes, 
dimmed  by  many  tears,  become  resolute  and 
imperious.     She  inquires: 

''AtLunevUle?" 

"Monsieur  Henri  himself  says  that  there  is 
hope,"  observes  Monsieur  Bouchaud. 

But  Edith  repeats,  as  if  inspired: 

"At  Luneville!" 

And  all  at  once: 

"But  I  wish  to  go  to  Luneville !  I  wish  to 
go  to  see  him.  I  want  to  .  .  .  to  .  .  .  press 
his  hand  before  he  dies.  He  has  no  mother, 
he  has  no  sister,  he  has  no  one,  he  has  only 
me,  who  would  have  been  his  wife  some  day. 
My  duty  is  to  go,  to  go  quickly !" 

Blonde  and  frail  Edith !  No  one  has  ever 
seen  her  so  fearless  and  so  determined.  The 
tone  of  her  voice  prostrates  poor  Papa  Bou- 
chaud, who  does  not  try  to  resist  her,  but  falls 
into  an  armchair. 

"To  Luneville !  She  wishes  to  go  to  Lune- 
ville !  But,  unhappy  child,  you  do  not  know 
what  danger  you  are  risking!     Reread   the 

93 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

letter  of  your  uncle's  clerk;  you  see  that  it  is 
twelve  kilometers  from  the  firing-line.  You 
want  to  face  cannon,  bombs,  and  Taubes.  Ah  ! 
there  is  nothing  we  lack  but  that !" 

"I  do  not  fear  cannon  and  Taubes,"  said 
Edith.     "I  will  go." 

Here  Madame  Bouchaud  enters,  in  her  turn, 
with  swollen  eyes,  unreconciled. 

"The  soup  will  be  cold,"  she  says  sweetly. 
But  the  father  points  to  his  daughter: 

"She  wants  to  go  to  Luneville !" 

Madame  Bouchaud  is  not  frightened. 
There  are  suggestions  to  which  one  does  not 
respond.  The  one  repeated  by  M.  Bou- 
chaud is  one  of  these.  For  Madame  Bou- 
chaud it  is  exactly  as  if  one  said  of  a  little 
child:  "He  wants  to  go  to  the  moon." 

"Let  us  go  to  the  table  while  we  are  wait- 
ing," she  resumes  sagely. 

In  the  dining-room,  while  the  girls  stay  in 
the  salon  to  arrange  their  hair  and  freshen 
their  altered  faces,  the  department  head  says 
to  his  wife,  as  he  cuts  the  bread: 

"Listen,  mamma,  it  will  not  do  to  hold  her 
back.  Her  heart  is  too  deeply  involved. 
Young  girls  are  like  still  water.     One  does  not 

94 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

know  them.  Little  daughter  masks  her  play. 
What  will  you  have!  Remember  the  time 
when  you  were  her  age.  But  I  am  no  longer 
able  to  see  her  cry  as  I  saw  her  just  now.  It 
upsets  me.  It  makes  me  ill.  It  spoils  my 
appetite.  We  must  let  her  go  to  Luneville, 
mamma.  And  then,  who  knows  ?  This  poor 
Picot  is  so  smitten,  on  his  side,  that  a  visit 
from  his  future  wife  may  restore  him.  I,  too, 
have  been  twenty-five  years  old,  by  George !" 

"And  if  this  little  girl  is  killed  at  Lune- 
ville?" demands  Madame  Bouchaud,  as  she 
crosses  her  arms,  forcibly  closing  the  argu- 
ment. 

But  the  department  head  replies  dully,  hid- 
ing his  emotions: 

"Well,  there  will  be  one  more  heroine  for 
France." 


95 


XIV 

INDISSOLUBLE  fellowship  of  the  French 
family !  Marvellous  cohesion !  Powerful 
soHdarity  !  I  shall  not  tell  you  here  all  of  the 
dramas  that  were  arranged  during  one  week 
at  the  Bouchauds'  and  the  Duvals',  around 
Edith's  phrase:  "I  want  to  go  to  Luneville." 
But  you  know  the  household  of  Choisy-le-Roi 
and  of  the  Rue  du  Cherche-Midi  well  enough 
now  to  imagine  that  she  did  not  go  alone. 
Who,  then,  will  be  torn  from  the  familiar 
group?  What  stone  shall  be  detached  from 
the  edifice?  It  seems  quite  natural  that  it 
should  be  Madame  Bouchaud.  Is  it  not  the 
role  of  a  mother  to  take  a  young  daughter  to 
her  wounded  fiance?  But  in  response  to 
Edith's  request,  Madame  Bouchaud,  stupe- 
fied, amazed,  and  incapable  of  understanding 
the  inanity  of  such  a  prayer,  answers  with 
one  word: 

"See,  do  you  think  that  I  would  leave 
papa?" 

On  his  part,  because  of  the  needs  of  the 

96 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

present  hour,  Monsieur  Bouchaud  was,  ac- 
cording to  his  characteristic  expression,  bound 
to  the  Meilleur  Marche,  without  private  inter- 
ests, like  a  soldier  at  his  post.  Then  Edith 
comes  to  the  Rue  du  Cherche-Midi  and  says 
to  Madame  Duval: 

"Auntie,  will  you  take  me  to  Luneville?" 

Madame  Duval's  arms  fall,  her  eyes  grow 
large,  she  stammers: 

"Take  you  to  Luneville!  But  my  poor 
child,  how  could  I  leave  your  uncle  ?  " 

Edith  has  nothing  to  reply.  She  knows 
what  is  possible  and  what  is  not.  She  turns  to 
the  bookseller.  A  man  is  more  independent 
of  family  ties.  Louise,  who  knows  enough 
about  selling  books,  could  replace  him  in  the 
shop,  aided  by  Madame  Duval.  But  Uncle 
Duval  refuses  with  these  words: 

"Little  girl,  during  these  twenty-six  years 
that  we  have  been  married  I  have  never  been 
anywhere,  even  to  Choisy-le-Roi,  without  my 
wife.  I  know  your  aunt.  She  drowns  herself 
in  a  glass  of  water  and  makes  a  mountain  out 
of  a  grain  of  sand.  If  the  least  business  diffi- 
culty arises  in  my  absence,  here  is  a  woman 
who  will  lose  her  head.    Ah !  It  would  cer- 

97 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

tainly  have  been  a  fine  trip,  and  I  should  have 
been  happy  not  only  to  press  the  hand  of  this 
heroic  Picot,  but  to  have  part  in  the  excite- 
ment of  a  town  at  the  front  rather  than  to 
grow  musty  in  my  shop,  as  I  have  done  since 
the  beginning  of  the  war.  But  it  is  impossi- 
ble, my  child.  I  should  be  too  uneasy  about 
my  wife  and  Louise." 

Then  Louise  says : 

"Very  well,  I  will  go  with  poor  Edith  my- 
self!" 

At  this  all  of  the  shocked  parents  utter  loud 
cries.  ''Two  young  girls  alone,  nonsense! 
And  in  case  of  bombardment,  what  would 
they  do?" 

You  must  begin  to  fear  that  Edith  will  never 
go  to  Luneville.  I  can  assure  you  that  Edith 
fears  it  even  more  than  you.  Happily,  Xavier 
des  Assernes  was  there.  He  was  unobtrusively 
present  at  these  difficult  family  scenes.  He 
is  the  fascinated  witness,  finding  there  the 
whole  of  French  psychology,  the  tender  char- 
acter, anxious  and  alarmist,  of  our  family 
affection.     Finally  he  cries: 

"I  will  escort  these  young  ladies  as  far  as 
Luneville." 

98 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

And  they  go. 

As  the  railroad  carries  them  along  the  val- 
ley of  the  Marne,  where  the  young  girls  gather 
on  the  wing,  like  a  consecrated  bouquet,  all  of 
the  memories  of  the  great  victory,  des  Assernes 
beguiles  the  hours  by  recalling  the  past  and 
the  history  of  Mirabelle. 

''This  gentlewoman,"  he  says  to  Edith, 
"was  less  fortunate  than  you.  When  a  dream 
showed  her  dear  knight  pierced  by  a  Saracen 
arrow  and  his  chest  bathed  with  blood  on  the 
edge  of  the  fountain  where  the  Turks  were 
coming  to  load  him  with  chains,  she  must 
have  been  prevented  from  going  to  see  him. 
The  troubadour  tells  us  that,  waking  from 
this  dream,  she  ran  through  all  the  rooms  of 
the  castle,  with  dishevelled  hair,  like  a  maniac 
and  weeping  torrents  of  tears.  There  was 
reason  for  it,  ladies.  Mirabelle  of  Pampeluna 
knew  that  the  Saracens  had  no  Red  Cross 
nurses,  and  she  might  have  had  her  doubts  as 
to  the  way  the  knight  of  Catalpan  would  be 
cared  for  by  the  infidels.  Nevertheless,  it 
was  to  their  interest  to  keep  such  a  fine  prize. 
And  they  cured  the  count  with  herbs.  Mean- 
while Mirabelle  prayed  to  Our  Lady,  repeating 

99 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

without  ceasing:  'Help  !  Help!  Our  Lady! 
I  would  rather  a  thousand  times  be  captive 
in  a  Saracen  tower,  in  place  of  my  beloved 
knight!'  And  she  repeated  it  so  often  that 
finally  God  and  His  Mother  took  pity  and  did 
as  she  desired,  that  is  to  say  when  she  opened 
her  eyes  one  morning  the  lady  found  herself 
lying  on  a  little  straw  by  the  side  of  a  half- 
empty  jug  of  water,  and  bound  with  rings  and 
chains  to  the  pillar  of  a  vast  room  in  a  castle 
in  Barbary.  She  realized  that  her  wish  was 
granted,  that  she  had  taken  the  place  of  Main- 
froy,  while  the  knight  enjoyed,  in  his  turn,  a 
certain  amount  of  comfort  in  the  castle  of 
Pampeluna." 

As  Louise  and  even  Edith,  in  spite  of  their 
melancholy,  are  unable  to  repress  a  smile  at 
this  point,  des  Assernes  explains  to  them: 

"The  literature  of  that  time  is  full  of  deeds 
no  less  marvellous  than  this.  Invisible  trans- 
portations and  substitutions  were  ordinary 
occurrences.  I  am  not  giving  you  a  course 
in  magic.  This  is  what  happened.  I  cannot 
tell  you  otherwise.  The  two  heroes  were  in- 
terchanged and  the  beautiful  Mirabelle  praised 
God  that  she  had  thus  delivered  her  knight." 

lOO 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

"Meantime,  they  continued  to  be  separ- 
ated as  in  the  past ! "  objects  the  tender  Edith. 

Des  Assernes  was  about  to  continue  the 
narrative,  when  he  was  stopped  by  an  excla- 
mation from  Louise.  They  were  crossing  an 
open,  green,  level  country,  and  in  a  field  were 
some  mounds  surmounted  by  a  cross.  They 
were  the  graves  of  soldiers  interred  there  the 
day  after  the  battle  of  the  Marne.  They  were 
stretched  out  in  this  beautiful  reconquered 
ground,  clad  in  their  red  trousers  and  their 
dark-blue  coats,  deluged  with  blood.  From 
what  corner  of  France  had  they  come  to  fall 
here,  pursuing  the  invaders?  They  were  all 
young.  No  doubt  Monsieur  Henri  and  Mon- 
sieur Robert  had  passed  that  way  among 
them.  They  might  have  been  sleeping  to-day 
under  one  of  these  httle  hillocks.  And  the 
hearts  of  the  young  girls  swell  miserably.  A 
little  farther  on  one  of  the  roads  an  intermina- 
ble file  of  covered  carts  are  passing  in  a 
straight  line,  like  a  caravan  in  the  desert,  jolt- 
ing their  httle  canopies  of  green  cloth,  dragged 
by  powerful  horses.  They  are  the  convoys 
of  the  commissary  department,  en  route  for 
the  front.     The  three  friends  are  silent.     They 

lOI 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

are  coming  more  and  more  into  the  sphere  of 
war.  The  air  they  breathe  is  quite  different, 
a  new  atmosphere.  At  Nancy,  on  the  station 
platform,  a  noise  like  the  unloading  of  trucks 
makes  Edith  and  Louise  start. 

It  is  the  firing  of  batteries  on  the  Vosges 
front. 

It  is  exactly  eleven  days  since  Adjutant 
Picot  has  received  his  terrible  wound  on  the 
parapet  of  the  listening  post,  and  this  morning 
his  hospital  nurse,  as  she  undoes  his  dressing 
and  lays  bare  the  gaping  wound,  exclaims: 

"But  it  is  doing  very  well  to-day !" 

The  major  is  in  the  little  room,  just  at  this 
moment,  where  the  non-commissioned  officers 
are  cared  for.  They  call  him.  He  examines 
the  wound ;  the  insect-like  feelers  of  his  nickel 
forceps  make  a  delicate  exploration  while 
Picot's  face  is  slightly  drawn.  Then  there  is 
the  auscultation  of  the  injured  lung. 

"Oh,  it  is  perfect  to-day.  No  fever,  no 
hemorrhage,  no  expectoration  tinged  with 
blood.     My  friend,  you  are  out  of  danger." 

The  good  gray-haired  nurse  and  boyish 
wounded  man  smile  at  each  other  without 

102 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

saying  anything;  but  in  this  smile  is  more  than 
a  long  discourse.  Imagine  that  for  eleven 
days  they  have  lived  without  a  break  near 
each  other,  with  the  one  thought  of  the  men- 
ace of  death  and  that  they  must  overcome  it. 
They  have  conquered.  It  is  as  if  Hfe,  with  all 
of  its  charms,  its  intoxications,  its  unexpected 
joys  were  suddenly  invading  the  room. 

Then  the  light  and  agreeable  dreams  of  con- 
valescence come  to  hover  around  the  adju- 
tant. He  would  then  still  march,  work,  speak, 
and  laugh  and  love  Edith  under  the  trees  of 
Choisy-le-Roi.  For  one  hope  never  comes 
quite  alone. 

'  And  during  this  time  our  three  travellers 
are  leaving  the  train  at  Luneville.  This  is  the 
station  square  where  one  sees  a  mass  of  ruins, 
collapsed  walls,  yawning  woodwork  and  shat- 
tered homes — the  ruins  of  the  bombardment 
of  19 14.  Cavalry  regiments  gallop  up  the 
streets,  making  them  vibrate  with  the  noise 
of  the  onset,  and  very  heavy  motor-trucks^ 
filled  with  ammunition,  pass  by  with  a  thun- 
dering noise.  The  dull  firing  of  near-by  can- 
non continuously  shakes  the  ground,  and  in 

103 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

the  air  three  aeroplanes  come  to  start  on  their 
flight,  buzzing  like  gigantic  beetles.     It  is  war. 

The  swift  feet  of  the  two  Parisian  girls  fly- 
also  over  the  sidewalk.  The  grand  Don 
QuLxote,  des  Assernes,  in  spite  of  his  longer 
steps,  can  hardly  keep  up  with  them.  Sud- 
denly, above  all  the  noise  of  the  warlike  agita- 
tion, the  solemn  notes  of  a  tolling  bell  break 
on  the  air.  It  is  a  sudden  knell,  agonizing, 
bringing  anxiety  as  it  rings.  It  is  the  alarm 
bell.  And  the  passers-by  hasten,  and  people 
hide,  and  the  rumor  spreads: 

"ItisaTaube!" 

Des  Assernes  trembles  because  of  his  re- 
sponsibilities. He  doesn't  care  for  his  old 
bones:  but  for  the  two  precious  children  of 
whom  he  is  the  guardian ! 

"Find  a  refuge,"  he  urges. 

The  young  women  look  at  each  other.  The 
one  idea  of  the  loving  Edith  is  clearly  seen; 
Louise  responds: 

"To  the  hospital  first!" 

And  at  the  hospital  Robert  Picot  is  properly 
stretched  in  his  white  bed.  The  white  nurse, 
seated  at  his  side,  is  writing  a  letter  from  his 
dictation.    It  is  the  first  he  has  been  allowed, 

Z04 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

and  he  Is  still  only  permitted  to  whisper  the 
words.  It  is  all  very  intimidating.  The  ad- 
jutant must  keep  himself  to  the  most  com- 
monplace expressions.  "Dear  Mademoiselle 
Edith,  my  wound  is  better.  My  thoughts 
often  turn  toward  you."  Poor  Picot !  no  one 
knows  how  his  heart  beats  in  pronouncing 
these  colorless  words. 

And  at  this  point  the  door  opens.  The  sil- 
houette of  a  young  girl,  whose  black  tailor  suit 
reveals  a  slender  waist,  enlarged  on  the  hips 
with  flounces,  the  skirt  stopping  short  above 
a  high  shoe,  appears  and  stands  on  the  thresh- 
old; the  blonde  head  turns  toward  all  the 
beds  with  a  circular  movement.  Picot's  heart 
stops  beating.  Is  it  still  the  fleeting  shade 
that  he  pressed  in  his  arms  through  the  dark 
trench?  Is  it  an  hallucination  of  the  fever 
returning?  Is  it  Edith  in  the  flesh?  And 
their  eyes  meet  at  last.  Edith  springs  forward 
with  outstretched  hands,  and  the  wounded 
man,  forbidden  to  speak,  murmurs  very 
softly:    "Edith!" 

At  once  the  good,  motherly  nurse  realizes 
that  the  letter  is  of  no  more  consequence. 
So  she  smiles  and  moves  away  amiably,  leav- 

105 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

ing  her  place  to  Edith.  Perfect  silence,  how- 
ever, continues  by  the  adjutant's  bed.  They 
press  each  other's  hands,  they  read  in  the 
divine  book  of  two  loving  eyes  open  to  the 
depth  of  the  soul.  They  confess  all  that  one 
does  not  dare  to  say  with  ordinary  words. 
Edith  asks  Picot's  pardon  for  the  suffering 
she  has  caused  him.  Picot  almost  excuses 
himself  for  not  having  always  been  the  hero 
he  is  to-day.  Then  there  is  a  formidable 
thunder-clap,  making  the  glass  window-panes 
of  the  room  shake.  Edith  explains  very 
calmly: 

''It  is  a  Taube  throwing  bombs  on  the 
town." 

How  does  it  all  happen?  It  is  very  simple: 
with  Monsieur  des  Assernes  and  Louise  wait- 
ing complaisantly  in  the  parlor  of  the  hospital 
and  not  coming  to  greet  Monsieur  Robert  for 
a  long  time,  until  Edith  and  he  may  have  ex- 
hausted their  conversation.  But  dumb  con- 
versation is  inexhaustible.  There  are  very 
sweet  moments  whose  flight  is  invisible. 
Edith  had  not  realized  that  she  loved  Rob- 
ert so  much.  Robert  had  never  loved  Edith 
so  much.    How  beautiful  life  seems  to  the 

io6 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

wounded  man  when  the  good  nurse  comes  to 
see  if  it  doesn't  tire  him  too  much  to  talk  and 
Edith  announces  proudly: 

''Madame,  I  am  the  fiancee  of  Adjutant 
Picot." 


107 


XV 

THE  colonel  of  Picot's  and  Lecointre's 
regiment,  writing  in  his  little  salon,  sees 
a  young  officer  coming  toward  his  lodgings, 
and,  being  near-sighted,  asks  himself  which 
one  of  his  subalterns  is  coming  to  disturb  him 
at  this  early  hour.  I  must  inform  you  that 
we  are  at  present  in  Champagne,  not  far  from 
a  little  river  bordered  with  poplars,  named  the 
Suippe;  the  colonel's  house  is  dug  in  a  chalky 
ravine  in  the  middle  of  a  well-known  wood 
called  the  Bois  Sabot.  The  little  salon  con- 
tains, in  place  of  furniture,  a  bundle  of  hay 
for  an  armchair  and  a  soap-box  for  a  table. 
Very  tame,  the  colonel's  mare,  in  penetrating 
the  other  day  as  far  as  this,  devoured  the  bed 
and  the  chair  in  the  bedroom.  Fortunately, 
the  upholsterer  is  not  far  away. 

The  regiment  recently  from  the  trenches 
has  taken  shelter  here.  The  word  shelter  is 
only  a  form  of  speech,  for  here  and  there  the 
beeches,  rent  apart,  show  the  naked  white 

io8 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

flesh  of  their  torn  trunks,  a  witness  that  the 
great  shells  come  often  to  visit  the  wood  of 
repose.  Nevertheless,  they  are  sufficiently 
distant  from  the  lines  for  the  nerves  of  the 
men  to  relax.  Burlesque  or  sentimental  songs 
rise  under  the  lopped  trees.  Barytones  and 
tenors,  in  a  discordant  chorus,  mingle  the 
languishing  melodies  of  the  waltz  with  the 
dramatic  accents  of  Faust  or  of  Mignon. 

All  of  this  music  rises  from  shell-holes  filled 
with  rain  water,  where  the  men  wash  their 
linen,  which  they  spread  out  to  dry  afterward 
on  the  bushes  in  the  thicket.  One  sees  them 
from  a  distance  going  between  the  trees,  with 
bare  chests,  and  in  dark-blue  trousers.  With 
hatchets  in  their  hands  they  procure  wood  for 
screens  and  work  at  night. 

"Colonel  ..." 

"Ah !  it  is  you,  Lecointre.  What  do  you 
want  to-day?" 

Do  not  be  surprised  to  see  on  Monsieur 
Henri's  faded  blue  sleeve  a  modest  gold  offi- 
cer's stripe.  He  won  it  at  Eparges,  in  a 
counter-attack,  taking  the  head  of  his  section 
when  the  chief  had  fallen.  That  day  they 
took  a  French  trench  from  the  Boches,  and 

109 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

three  hundred  meters  in  depth  into  the  bar- 
gain. 
,    "Colonel,  I  want  a  leave  of  absence." 

"Ah !  Leave  of  absence,  a  leave  of  absence. 
But  if  the  big  machine  you  know  so  well  lets 
loose  on  us  during  that  time?" 

I  must  tell  you  that  we  are  in  August,  1915, 
and  that  the  great  machine  in  question  is  the 
long-awaited  offensive. 

"  Colonel,  it  seems  that  the  preparations  for 
advance  executed  by  the  colonial  troops  re- 
quire a  few  weeks  more,  and  that  before  seven 
days,  at  the  least,  nothing  can  possibly  hap- 
pen. On  the  other  hand,  my  friend  Picot, 
the  Adjutant  Picot,  so  gloriously  wounded  in 
the  forest  of  Parroy,  is  convalescing  in  Paris; 
if  we  had  been  able  to  see  each  other  there  I 
should  have  been  happy." 

"Picot,  yes,  yes,  the  very  brave  Adjutant 
Picot.  Proposed  for  the  medallion  of  honor, 
I  remember.  You  have  never  had  any  leave, 
no?  Well,  my  friend,  go  to  Paris.  Go  to 
Paris." 

The  person  not  seeing  Sublieutenant  Le- 
cointre  cut  across  the  fields  to  overtake  the 
auto-ambulance  for  Chalons  on  the  road  from 

no 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

Suippes  to  Saint-Menehould,  does  not  know 
how  fast  a  man  can  run.  You  must  realize 
that  if  he  is  able  to  catch  this  vehicle,  he  will 
be  able  to  reach  the  main  line  and  take  the 
Paris  train.  Realize  that  a  year  has  passed 
since  Monsieur  Henri  has  seen  Mademoiselle 
Louise,  and  that  Paris  means  her,  and  that, 
if  he  meets  this  auto,  he  will  be  able  as  early 
as  to-morrow  morning  to  press  her  dear  hands 
in  his.  Now  it  is  no  longer  a  man  running, 
it  is  a  man  flying  over  the  trodden  earth, 
where  the  grass  no  longer  grows.  Each  leap 
makes  him  gain  on  one  of  the  revolutions  of 
the  carriage  wheel.  At  last  he  is  in  sight  of 
the  auto,  which  is  stopping.  An  energetic 
sign  makes  the  chauffeur  understand  that  he 
must  stop.  The  subHeutenant  reaches  the 
step.  It  seems  to  him  that  he  has  gained  the 
whole  world ! 

At  the  Chalons  station  the  Paris  train  is 
signalled.  Monsieur  Henri  has  not  even  time 
to  send  a  despatch  to  the  Rue  du  Cherche- 
Midi.  The  train  arrives,  takes  him,  and  car- 
ries him  away.  Heavens,  but  the  express  is 
slow !  Monsieur  Henri  feels  that  he  could  go 
faster  on  foot.    The  dream  is  so  beautiful! 

Ill 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

Will  it  not  vanish  if  it  is  not  seized  in  time? 
Having  lived  through  Charleroi,  the  battle  of 
the  Marne,  Eparges,  the  forest  of  Parroy, 
Eparges  again,  the  preparation  for  the  Cham- 
pagne offensive,  escaping  out  of  several  hells, 
and  to  see  Louise  again  in  the  Rue  du  Cherche- 
Midi  shop,  what  a  marvel ! 

On  leaving  the  eastern  station  Monsieur 
Henri  blinks  his  eyes  a  minute  at  the  sight  of 
Paris.  His  Paris  recovered  again  excites  him 
greatly.  Paris,  it  is  the  air  where  Louise 
breathes;  it  is  the  perfume  of  Louise,  and  it  is 
an  entirely  familiar  and  friendly  atmosphere 
making  the  old  memories  live.  He  jumps  into 
an  open  taxi.  The  early  passing  of  the  water- 
ing carts  causes  a  well  known  odor  to  rise 
under  the  scorched  trees.  Here  is  the  Place 
Saint-Michel  and  the  station  for  Choisy-le- 
Roi.  Here  are  the  shops  before  which,  not 
long  ago,  he  often  stopped  near  the  disdainful 
Louise.  Louise  has  changed  since  then.  Her 
letters  have  proved  it  to  Lecointre.  But  what 
will  she  say  when  she  sees  a  hairy  and  dusty 
soldier,  with  faded  garments,  bleached-out 
cap  and  shoes,  whitened  by  the  chalk  of 
Champagne?     In    spite    of    himself    he    is 

112 


MIIUBELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

carried  back  to  the  story  formerly  repeated 
by  Monsieur  des  Assernes,  while  he  waited  on 
customers  in  the  book-shop.  Mirabelle  of 
Pampeluna  had  a  cavalier,  the  lord  of  Catal- 
pan,  who  always  looked  as  if  he  had  just 
stepped  out  of  a  bandbox,  if  one  believed  the 
descriptions  of  the  legend.  Monsieur  Henri, 
himself,  had  not  had  time  for  the  stroke  of  a 
brush.  You  will  tell  me  that  before  present- 
ing himself  in  the  shop  of  the  Rue  du  Cherche- 
Midi,  the  sublieutenant  would  have  at  least 
gone  to  the  barber.  Granted.  But  it  was  not 
his  idea,  and  I  can  do  nothing  about  it.  Here 
he  is,  then,  at  the  cross-road  of  the  Croix- 
Rouge,  and  here  is  the  street  so  much  desired. 
Monsieur  Henri  notices  that  it  has  not 
changed.  The  houses  are  always  a  little 
crooked  and  have  an  atmosphere  of  Paris  of 
one  hundred  years  ago.  The  passers-by  have 
a  graver  air  than  before  the  war.  There  are 
women  in  mourning.  But  the  city  sweepers 
perform  their  work  as  always.  When  Mon- 
sieur Henri  sees  in  a  well  known  window  the 
yellow  series  of  modern  authors  he  had  care- 
fully dusted  himself,  each  morning  recently, 
his  heart  grows  faint.    He  is  generous  with 

113 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

the  chauffeur,  who  looks  in  a  dazzled  way  at 
his  tip  while  the  officer  has  already  bounded 
into  the  shop. 

A  young  woman  is  there,  in  the  rear, 
straightening  on  the  shelf  the  series  of  Alexan- 
dre Dumas.  She  turns  with  a  gracious  move- 
ment, making  the  flounces  of  her  skirt  move 
and  reveaHng  her  fine  figure.  She  sees  an  offi- 
cer just  from  the  front.  He  looks  at  her.  She 
hesitates  a  second,  then  a  divine  smile,  such 
as  Monsieur  Henri  had  never  beheld,  brightens 
up  her  face.  She  comes  to  him  without  say- 
ing anything,  a  Httle  timid,  clasping  her  arms 
around  the  neck  of  her  hero,  and  embracing 
him  as  she  murmurs: 

"I  am  so  proud  of  you  !" 

Monsieur  Henri  is  trembling  with  adoration 
and  happiness.  See  the  dear  hands,  behold 
the  charming  eyes  which  have  seemed  like  a 
vision  to  him,  and  here  are  the  tender  lips 
which  he  had  scarcely  dared  to  look  at  in 
former  times. 

"Is  it  true  that  you  love  me,  Louise?" 

"Ah!  Don't  you  think  so,  my  sweet-« 
heart!" 

"Do  you  remember,  Louise,  the  time  when 

114 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

you  asked  me  if  I  would  throw  myself  for  you 
from  the  top  of  the  Eiffel  Tower?" 

"Henri,  it  is  not  necessary  for  you  to  remind 
me  of  my  stupidity.  I  regret  deeply  that  I 
misunderstood  you.  But  how  was  I  able  to 
guess  that  you  would  be  so  brave,  when  I  saw 
you  fishing  for  gudgeons  at  Choisy?" 

"Louise,  I  am  no  more  brave  than  any  of 
the  others.  We  French  have  something  in  our 
blood  that  makes  us  fight  well  and  that  is  all. 
After  the  war,  if  God  keeps  me  alive,  I  shall 
become  a  book-clerk  again  and  an  angler  as 
before.  Perhaps  then  you  will  cease  to  love 
me." 

"Henri,  could  I  ever  forget  what  you  have 
been  during  this  war,  could  I  forget  the  hero- 
ism which  I  should  never  have  known  if  Mon- 
sieur Robert  had  not  told  me  about  it?" 

"Louise,  when  I  thought  I  was  fighting  for 
France  and  for  you,  I  would  rather  have  been 
torn  in  pieces  than  retreat  a  step." 

At  these  words  Louise  has  a  great  desire  to 
cry,  but  she  does  not  want  Monsieur  Henri 
to  see  her  tears;  therefore  she  hides  her  face 
on  the  sublieutenant's  shoulder.  The  tears 
run  down  and  are  absorbed  in  the  dark- blue 

US 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

coat.  At  this  instant  Monsieur  Duval  comes 
down  from  the  apartment  above  and  arrives, 
without  any  more  noise  than  usual,  opposite 
this  unexpected  sight — his  daughter  in  the 
arms  of  an  officer  from  the  front!  I  should 
be  telling  a  falsehood  if  I  should  say,  as  cer- 
tain authors  do,  that  he  stops  senseless  with 
astonishment,  as  if  lightning  had  struck  at 
his  feet.  No;  he  recognizes  his  clerk  at  once 
and  springs  forward  to  press  him  to  his  heart 
in  his  turn. 

"My  dear  Henri,  how  happy  I  should  be 
if  I  were  your  father !" 

"But  you  will  be  very  soon,  papa,"  says 
Louise. 

They  laugh  over  that  with  an  air  of  mutual 
understanding,  and  Monsieur  Duval  asks: 

"Well,  how  about  the  Boches?" 

"We  shall  get  them!"  declares  Monsieur 
Henri  fearlessly. 


ii6 


XVI 

PRECISELY  the  next  day  proves  to  be  the 
kind  of  Sunday  to  drive  the  soldier  on 
leave  to  Choisy-le-Roi  to  see  the  Bouchauds. 
Carping  critics  may  say  to  me:  "How  can  the 
police  let  him  pass  at  the  station  if  his  ticket- 
of-leave  is  viseed  for  Paris  ?  "  I  answer  these 
cavilling  spirits  in  this  way:  Monsieur  Henri, 
thinking  of  everything,  took  care  to  obtain 
his  leave  for  Paris-Choisy.  Others  may  regret 
that  the  novelist,  Xavier  des  Assernes,  the 
editor  of  "Mirabelle  of  Pampeluna,"  and  one 
of  our  most  congenial  characters,  should  not 
have  been  present  at  the  general  reunion  of 
the  Duval  and  Bouchaud  families.  Let  these 
persons  be  reassured.  Monsieur  des  Assernes 
arrived  last  evening  from  Toulouse.  And  if 
they  are  astonished  at  the  singular  coincidence 
which  makes  the  novelist  from  Toulouse  un- 
expectedly drop  in  at  Paris  each  time  a  con- 
spicuous event  occurs  either  in  the  Bouchaud 
family,  or  in  the  Duval  family,  I  could  cite 
the  best  story-tellers  who,  from  Voltaire  to 

117 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

Dumas,  have  used  analogous  circumstances  in 
their  novels.  But  I  prefer  to  show  you  the 
bookseller,  his  family,  as  well  as  Sublieuten- 
ant Lecointre  and  the  novelist  des  Assernes 
descending  from  the  train  at  the  Choisy  sta- 
tion, where  the  Bouchaud  ladies  are  waiting 
for  them,  waving  their  umbrellas.  The  de- 
partment head  and  Adjutant  Robert  Picot, 
resplendent  with  health  and  happiness,  are 
there,  too.  But  who,  then,  is  this  young  sol- 
dier in  a  new  outfit,  whose  costume  of  sky- 
blue  accentuates  his  fresh  color,  clear  eyes, 
and  blond  hair  ?  You  would  not  have  known 
him.  It  is  Georges  Bouchaud,  and  I  will  tell 
you  at  once  why  he  is  here. 

Here  is  an  entire  family  divided  between  a 
desire  to  fete  the  soldier  on  leave  and  anxiety 
to  receive  properly  the  celebrated  man  conde- 
scending to  visit  Choisy  for  the  first  time. 
While  Monsieur  Henri  is  falhng  into  the  arms 
of  Monsieur  Robert,  Monsieur  Bouchaud  ex- 
plains to  des  Assernes:  "Monsieur,  we  are 
only  middle-class  people  earning  our  living. 
I  who  am  speaking  to  you  am  self-made,  know- 
ing nothing  of  Hterature,  and  it  is  a  great  honor 
you  are  paying  us  in  coming  to  visit  us.     At 

ii8 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

least  you  will  find  two  French  soldiers  here  of 
whom  you  will  not  be  ashamed.  We  shall 
treat  you  as  well  as  we  are  able,  and  we  shall 
mingle  your  literary  renown  with  our  military 
glory." 

"Monsieur,"  says  des  Assernes,  astonished, 
"you  are  giving  me,  it  seems  to  me,  a  recep- 
tion almost  academic." 

"My  goodness,  monsieur,"  replies  Father 
Bouchaud,  "no  one  has  ever  whispered  such 
a  thing  to  me  as  you  have  just  suggested. 
These  are  ideas  I  have  thought  of  quite  easily 
in  the  morning  when  I  was  smoking  my  pipe 
in  the  arbor." 

"Old  pal,"  says  Monsieur  Henri  to  Adju- 
tant Picot,  "the  last  time  I  saw  you  was  in 
the  trench  in  Lorraine;  you  were  passing  on  a 
stretcher,  with  motionless  head,  sunken  eyes, 
and  your  chest  hidden  by  a  large  dressing. 
I  certainly  believed  it  was  the  end.  I  sta- 
tioned myself  behind  a  ruined  wall  so  that 
my  men  should  not  notice  that  I  was  crying 
like  a  child." 

"On  the  contrary,  I  was  in  luck!"  cries 
Monsieur  Robert,  smiling. 

And,  pointing  to  Edith,  he  adds:  "And,  you 

119 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

know,  I  don't  regret  the  ball  that  penetrated 
my  chest.     It  was  worth  a  fortune  to  me." 

"How  Monsieur  Henri  has  exaggerated," 
says  good  Madame  Bouchaud. 

"Do  you  remember,  Monsieur  Robert," 
asks  Madame  Duval,  "do  you  remember 
when  you  caught  a  four-pound  pike  ?  " 

Chatting  away  they  reach  the  stone  pa- 
vilion. The  table  is  laid  on  the  lawn  before 
the  front  steps.  The  table-cloth  is  dazzling 
in  the  sun  and  the  glass  sparkles.  With  an 
intelligent  look  Monsieur  Bouchaud  assigns 
the  champagne  glasses  to  his  brother-in-law. 

"It  is  to  drink  the  health  of  the  lovers,"  he 
says. 

They  go  to  the  table  joyously  and  then  look 
toward  the  younger  member  of  the  youthful 
military  circle,  Georges  Bouchaud,  who  is 
somewhat  impressed  by  the  gold  stripes  of 
Sublieutenant  Lecointre. 

"What  luck,  that  Georges  was  able  to  have 
his  leave  at  this  time,"  declares  his  cousin. 

"But  what  has  happened  to  his  thumb?" 
questions  Monsieur  Duval,  whose  glance  is 
piercing  behind  his  eye-glass. 

Then  all  eyes  are  levelled  on  Georges  Bou- 

I20 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

chaud's  thumb.  The  young  soldier  blushes, 
becomes  scarlet,  and  shows  his  hand  with  a 
large  scar  extending  from  the  first  thumb  joint 
to  the  life-line-  They  question  him.  They 
w\'int  to  know  about  it. 

''That,"  he  says  at  last,  "is  the  scar  of  a 
bayonet  wound  received  in  an  assault.  It 
was  at  the  labyrinth,  two  months  ago." 

"You  did  not  leave  it ? "  asks  his  father. 

"You  must  remember  that  they  were  ad- 
vancmg;  I  was  not  going  to  miss  the  end  of 

it.  .  .  ." 

All  forks  are  held  suspended,  all  conversa- 
tion stopped,  and  the  ensumg  silence  lasts 
several  seconds,  while  all  eyes  are  turned  with 
admiration  toward  the  nineteen-year-old  hero. 
They  are  just  discovering  Georges.  They  had 
not  known  him;  he  is  reveahng  himself.  Then 
his  father  turns  toward  des  Assernes: 

"There  are  no  more  children,  monsieur. 
And  do  you  know  by  what  happy  chance  he 
is  with  us  to-day,  that  big  lad?  Well,  mon- 
sieur, it  is  because  he  is  going  to  the  Darda- 
nelles in  a  week." 

"He  is  going  to  fight  the  Turks!"  cries 
Mademoiselle  Louise. 

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MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

"The  crusades  are  beginring  again!"  adds 
the  novelist. 

"That  will  be  fine,"  says  Georges.  "At 
first  I  shall  go  to  see  Marseilles;  then  there 
will  be  the  voyage,  and  at  last  I  shall  learn  to 
know  a  new  country." 

"The  feelings  of  this  soldier-child,"  remarks 
des  Assernes,  "do  not  differ  from  those  of  the 
knight  of  Catalpan  returning  to  Barbary. 
The  worthy  desire  to  travel  was  joined  to  the 
passion  for  fighting  for  a  great  idea.  It  is 
true,  we  are  not  going  for  the  purpose  of  mak- 
ing material  conquests  in  Turkey,  but  to  bring 
the  modern  Saracens  back  to  reason,  as  they 
are  leagued,  quite  naturally,  with  the  barbari- 
ans against  the  civilization  of  Latin  Catholi- 
cism. The  knights  of  the  Middle  Ages,  like 
the  Allies  of  to-day,  defended  refinement,  hu- 
mane manners,  and  the  divine  passion  for 
liberty  much  more  than  they  fought  for  cer- 
tain leagues  of  territory.  And  what  charms 
me  most  in  this  alliance  is  that  in  this  new 
crusade,  according  to  the  splendid  wish  of 
Joan  of  Arc,  we  go  hand  in  hand  with  the 
English." 

"By  the  way,"    asks   Sublieutenant  Le- 

122 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

cointre,  "where  are  you  then,  monsieur,  with 
your  Mirabelle  of  Pampeluna  ?  " 

You  may  well  imagine  that  des  Assernes  is 
only  waiting  for  a  word  to  speak  of  his  dear 
Mirabelle,  and  now  he  starts  off  immediately 
on  this  subject: 

"My  dear  friend,  when  I  had  the  honor  to 
accompany  these  charming  young  ladies  to 
Luneville  we  left  Mirabelle  in  a  Saracen  cha- 
teau, where  she  found  herself  by  a  miracle  in 
the  place  of  her  cavalier,  the  lord  of  Catal- 
pan,  who  had  been  invisibly  transported  to 
Pampeluna.  When  the  jailers,  coming  as 
usual  to  bring  to  the  noble  prisoner  his  meagre 
pittance  of  a  little  mouldy  bread  and  a  jug  of 
bitter  water,  opened  the  iron  shutter  of  the 
door  they  were  greatly  astonished  to  behold 
the  beautiful  young  lady.  They  demanded 
of  her  how  she  came  here.  But  because  she 
had  had  no  experience  with  the  Saracens, 
Mirabelle  did  not  explain  anything  to  them. 
Meanwhile  they  saw  the  iron  rings  duly  riv- 
eted to  their  pegs,  and  these  heathen  admired 
the  workmanship  and  artifice  of  it  all.  Then 
they  ran  to  the  emir  of  Barbary  to  tell  him 
of  the  adventure.    The  emir,  who  was  very 

123 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

old,  did  not  disturb  himself,  having  passed 
the  curious  age.  But  his  son,  hearing  them 
speak  of  a  Christian  girl  lying  under  the  straw 
in  one  of  the  vast  prisons,  announced  in  his 
language  that  he  was  going  to  see  himself  how 
matters  stood.  He  went.  This  young  prince, 
although  Saracen,  was  kind-hearted.  When 
he  saw  this  noble  young  lady  of  France  bound 
by  chains  which  made  her  delicate  limbs  black 
and  blue,  and  fatigued  them,  he  was  moved 
with  great  pity  and  profound  indignation,  and 
commanded  them  to  give  her  back  her  liberty. 
This,  Mirabelle,  as  just  as  she  was  wise,  re- 
fused. 'For,'  said  she,  'I  He  in  this  place  be- 
cause of  faith  in  God,  in  place  of  my  knight, 
and  I  must  be  a  captive  as  long  as  he  would 
have  been.'  And  the  Saracen  knight  mar- 
velled at  so  much  good  faith  in  a  lady.  '  Never 
have  I  seen  so  much  uprightness,'  he  said. 
He  had  cheese  fritters  brought  to  her,  some 
sweets,  and  brightly  colored  eggs.  Then  he 
went  to  find  the  sultan  to  arrange  with  him 
about  the  Hberation  of  the  lord  of  Catalpan, 
and  when  it  was  all  understood  he  returned  to 
tell  Mirabelle  that  she  was  free.  But  it  was 
a  sad   freedom,  for  the  emir's  son  became 

124 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

very  melancholy  whenever  he  thought  of  it. 
You  have  guessed  it:  he  was  very  much  in 
love.  He  gave  her  a  sumptuous  room  with 
black  slaves  to  serve  her.  And  every  day  he 
came  to  tell  her  of  his  torment.  The  noble 
lady  was  thinking  of  other  things  than  this 
little  emir.  She  talked  to  him  seriously  to 
persuade  him  that  she  could  not  love  any 
other  knight  than  her  own;  how  could  she 
then  think  of  an  infidel  ?  But  she  said  these 
hard  words  with  so  much  sweetness  that  the 
Saracen  lord,  instead  of  resigning  himself, 
only  loved  her  more. 

"During  this  time  the  lord  of  Catalpan  did 
not  tarry  in  the  castle  of  Pampeluna,  from 
which  the  life  had  flown  away.  He  had  only 
one  idea — to  go  and  deHver  Mirabelle.  He 
ran  straight  to  the  castle  of  FoLx,  to  obtain 
new  arms  and  men-of-war.  Here  he  is  at 
Aigues-Mortes.  He  embarks  with  his  little 
band  after  chartering  a  new  ship  with  his 
money,  and  we  see  them  again  at  the  mercy 
of  the  waves  and  sailors." 

Here,  des  Assernes,  relating  without  fatigue, 
as  he  tastes  one  by  one  the  duck  with  green 
peas,  the  traditional  roast  mutton,  the  Rus- 

125 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

sian  salad,  and  the  ice-cream,  starts  at  the 
sound  of  a  double  report.  It  is  the  two  Bou- 
chauds,  father  and  son,  making  the  cham- 
pagne pop.  He  is  obliged  to  stop  a  moment. 
The  three  soldiers  raise  their  glasses  to  victory 
and  the  two  fiancees  wet  their  Ups  in  the  foam, 
each  smiling  at  her  lover.  The  air  is  mild,  the 
sky  clear,  and  the  country  serene.  Charming 
interlude !  Exquisite  hour  of  respite !  How 
far  away  the  war  is  now !  Our  three  warriors 
laugh  heartily  as  they  drink  interminable 
toasts:  their  ears  long  to  forget  the  noise  of 
cannon,  their  eyes  the  sight  of  the  war-har- 
assed country  at  the  front.  Love  agitates 
the  women  struggling  not  to  think  of  the  dan- 
gers hanging  over  these  precious  heads.  They 
are  granted  this  day  to  take  breath.  Is  it 
not  the  way  of  the  French  to  enjoy  a  dream 
as  well  as  a  reality  ?  This  is  a  day  of  dreams. 
Soon  they  serve  the  coffee  and  the  liqueurs, 
and  the  cigarettes  mingle  their  fragrant  smoke 
with  the  perfume  of  the  heliotrope  beds./ 


126 


XVII 

IT  is  the  close  of  the  day.  Twilight  never 
comes  without  some  melancholy.  Under 
a  leafy  thicket  of  the  green  island  where  the 
launch  had  taken  the  guests,  Henri  and  Louise 
are  seated  side  by  side,  hand  in  hand.  And 
do  not  think  that  they  talk  the  rather  stupid 
bilhngs  and  cooings  too  often  customary  be- 
tween lovers.  The  heroic  times  have  made  a 
deep  impression  on  their  souls.  Tender  ca- 
resses remain  the  same;  meanwhile  they  do 
not  degenerate  into  insipidity. 

"Louise,"  says  Monsieur  Henri,  "when 
Monsieur  des  Assernes  describes  to  us  the 
gracious  and  high-spirited  Mirabelle,  so  wise, 
faithful,  and  brave,  do  you  know  whom  I 
see?" 

"No,"  replies  the  young  girl,  thus  telling  a 
falsehood. 

"It  is  of  you  that  I  think,  and  it  is  you  I 
picture,  Louise,  because  you  are  as  beautiful 
and  as  wise  and  as  brave." 

127 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

"Henri,"  she  replies  gravely,  "I  do  not 
know  whether  I  am  as  good  as  this  beautiful 
lady;  but  I  have  often  said  that  if  you  should 
be  killed  in  this  horrible  war  I  should  prefer  to 
die  in  your  place." 

Alas!  with  this  one  word,  the  bird  of  ill 
omen  they  had  driven  away  reappears.  It 
hovers  now  over  the  two  lovers  as  their  faces 
grow  sober. 

"Don't  say  that,"  replies  Monsieur  Henri. 
"I  should  prefer  to  die  twice.  But,  since  you 
have  brought  up  the  idea  of  possible  separa- 
tion, Louise,  it  is  necessary  that  I  should  tell 
you  that  the  offensive  is  near  and  that  there 
is  a  strong  chance  that  I  may  not  return.  I 
am  at  present  the  head  of  the  section.  It  is  a 
fine  post  ...  a  little  dangerous." 

Louise's  eyes  grow  large  and  full  of  agony. 
They  take  in  tenderly  the  entire  person  of 
the  subHeutenant,  so  robust  under  his  uni- 
form. Great  God  !  would  it  be  possible  to  see 
this  body  bathed  in  blood  and  stretched  out 
forever  on  the  cold  earth?  She  shudders 
without  crying. 

"Henri  ...  but  I  do  not  want  it!  I  do 
not  wish  you  to  die." 

128 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

The  officer  replies,  smiling  sadly: 

''Our  happiness  is  a  small  thing,  Louise,  in 
comparison  with  the  deliverance  of  the  coun- 
try. Certainly  I  am  pierced  with  the  thought 
of  leaving  you  forever  in  this  life.  Neverthe- 
less, I  have  made  my  sacrifice  to  France.  We 
come  to  desire  victory,  that  is  to  say  the  hap- 
piness of  all,  more  than  our  own  special  hum- 
ble good  fortune.  Would  you  love  me  as 
much,  Louise,  if  I  spoke  otherwise?" 

Louise  has  taken  her  face  in  her  hands  to 
hide  the  horrible  emotion  overwhelming  her. 

"You  know  well  that  I  love  you  in  the  same 
way,  Henri,  and  that  I  also  have  made  my 
sacrifice.  But  there  are  moments  when  one 
shudders  before  the  anguish. 

She  quickly  wipes  away  the  tears  forming 
pearls  in  her  eyes  and  at  last  smiles  at  her 
fiance.  The  great  trees  protecting  them  are 
not  surprised  at  this  heroic  dialogue.  They 
have  existed  for  centuries,  these  oaks  and 
these  poplars  of  the  He  de  France,  and  it  is 
perhaps  not  the  first  conversation  they  have 
heard  of  this  kind.  When  this  was  a  favorite 
residence  of  a  king,  more  than  one  lord,  leav- 
ing for  Flanders  or  the  Palatinate,  said  here 

129 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

his  impetuous  farewells  to  his  lady.  And  pre- 
viously, in  the  glorious  century  of  the  con- 
quests, how  many  soldiers  torn  from  the  arms 
of  their  sweethearts  have  spoken  in  the  same 
way  under  the  trees  !  And  still  farther  in  the 
past,  who  knows  if  a  similar  warrior  has  not 
used  the  same  words  here  with  the  dear  lassie 
he  was  leaving  behind  !  History  is  only  rep- 
etition, and  France  is  always  France. 


130 


XVIII 

WE  are  in  the  trenches  opposite  the  cote 
de  Tahure  on  the  evening  of  the  24th 
of  September,  191 5.  In  the  captain's  cave, 
with  white  chalk  walls,  lighted  with  a  candle 
in  a  dark  lantern,  a  majority  of  the  officers  of 
the  8th  are  reunited.  Under  the  sacks  of 
heaped-up  earth  protecting  the  roof  they  hear 
less  distinctly,  but  in  a  more  agonizing  way, 
perhaps,  the  uninterrupted  roUing  of  the  thun- 
der. Everything  has  rocked  for  two  days, 
under  the  bombardment  which  is  tearing  up 
the  enemy  trenches.  The  captain  asks,  forc- 
ing his  voice  to  make  himself  heard  in  the  din; 

"Have  you  seen  the  men?" 

"They  are  perfectly  cahn  and  in  good  form, 
captain,"  says  a  lieutenant.  "A  short  time 
ago  they  sang." 

"Oh !  To-night  they  are  able  to  sing,"  says 
the  captain. 

Life  at  the  front  has  changed  lately.  The 
blue  helmet  is  seen,  determining  forever  the 
characteristic  appearance  of  the  soldier  of  the 

131 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

great  war.  We  have  also  the  white  cave, 
with  its  hehneted  shadows  thrown  by  the 
candle  on  the  chalky  walls,  and  these  men, 
seated  on  the  straw  mattress  of  their  chief  or 
on  a  plank,  are  doing  what  is  quite  unusual 
this  evening.  They  are  not  especially  sleepy 
while  waiting  for  the  formidable  assault  of 
the  morrow.  And  the  captain  has  taken  from 
his  canteen  two  bottles  of  old  Medoc,  a  wind- 
fall hoarded  for  an  important  occasion. 

"Captain,"  says  Sublieutenant  Picot  gayly, 
"you  are  right  to  sacrifice  your  stores,  for  the 
future  is  doubtful  for  all  of  us  who  are  here." 

I  have  purposely  said  "Sublieutenant" 
Picot.  It  is  not  a  mistake.  The  gold  stripe 
was  waiting  for  the  adjutant  on  his  return  to 
the  8th,  after  his  convalescence,  passed  at 
Choisy-le-Roi. 

"It  is  all  the  same  to  us,"  says  Lecointre, 
"if  to-morrow  should  be  the  last  day,  we  ac- 
knowledge that  Hfe  has  been  good  and  its  end 
beautiful,  for  before  closing  our  eyes  we  shall 
have  foreseen  victory." 

"And  that  is  worth  the  cost,  gentlemen," 
adds  the  captain.     "To  your  health  !" 

"To  the  victory  of  to-morrow!"  roar  the 
seven  men  present,  hfting  their  glasses. 

132 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

"Boom!  Boom!  Boom!  Boom!"  punctu- 
ate solemnly  the  large  howitzers  and  the 
"75's,"  each  time  shaking  the  entire  dugout 
cave  and  the  men  to  their  very  inmost  souls. 

"I,"  says  a  little  lieutenant,  "shall  be  con- 
tent to  die  after  having  seen  that,  for  it  must 
be  fine!" 

"It  will  be  great  sport !"  cries  the  captain. 

"Gentlemen,"  says  Lecointre,  lifting  his 
glass  for  the  second  time,  "I  propose  to  drink 
to  those  whom  we  may  not  see  again  and  to 
whom  heavy  misfortune  is  coming.  ..." 

"To  the  women  of  France  !"  flings  out  joy- 
ously the  little  lieutenant. 

Arms  are  raised  again,  waving  the  glasses. 
But  this  time  the  glasses  tremble  slightly.  It 
is  perhaps  because  the  bombardment  is  re- 
doubled and  the  ground  is  shaken. 

"To  my  fiancee!"  announces  Picot  faith- 
fully. 

The  gay  little  lieutenant  says: 

"To  my  mother!" 

Then  the  captain,  his  eyes  determinedly 
fixed  on  the  candle  of  the  lantern: 

"I  have  three  little  children.  .  .  ." 

In  leaving  their  shelter,  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  later,  to  regain  their  sections,  Picot  and 

133 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

Lecointre  plunge  into  the  darkness  of  the 
opaque  night,  where  they  are  obliged  to  feel 
their  way  by  seeking  with  their  hands  the 
rough  places  in  the  wall  of  the  trench.  Their 
feet  stumble  about  the  ground  through  the 
mire,  for  a  fine  rain  has  begun  to  fall  this  after- 
noon. The  thunder  has  become  unbearable. 
The  strained  ear-drums  feel  as  if  they  were 
bursting. 

''Listen!"  says  Picot  suddenly. 

"No  need  of  listening,  old  pal,"  roars  Le- 
cointre, "I  hear  enough." 

"But  no,  you  do  not  understand  me !  I  am 
speaking  of  the  noise  between  the  reports  of 
the  cannon." 

At  this  moment  a  French  fusee,  like  a  bright 
Roman  candle,  shoots  off  at  the  right,  making 
a  dazzling  and  fugitive  day.  The  entire  dev- 
astated plain  can  be  seen.  The  trenches  are 
marked  by  large  hummocks  of  earth.  Hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  men  are  underneath, 
crouching,  immovable,  listening.  But  as 
everything  is  enveloped  in  thick  night  again, 
a  murmur  seems  to  come  from  the  immense 
ant-hill.  It  is  heard,  when  by  the  action  of 
the  artillery,  several  seconds  pass  between  the 

134 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

fires  of  the  battery.  Their  features  are  drawn 
with  disquietude.  Is  it  by  chance  a  wave  of 
discontent  running  through  the  invisible  mass 
in  the  shadow  ?  Is  it  that  at  the  approach  of 
the  formidable  assault  an  instinctive  and 
brutish  protest  rises  flrom  these  French 
breasts  ?  Lecointre  and  Picot  are  shocked  at 
this  suspicion.  However,  at  regular  intervals, 
quickly  smothered  by  the  thunder  of  the  artil- 
lery, the  uproar  is  heard.  The  two  officers  Us- 
ten  more  attentively.  The  subterranean  army 
watching  there  i3  composed  of  all  the  people 
of  France.  They  are  come  from  Brittany  and 
the  coasts  of  Provence,  from  Lorraine  and 
Anjou;  invaded  Artois  and  Flanders  have  fur- 
nished some,  as  well  as  Auvergne  and  Savoy; 
Norman  lads  are  crowded  with  Parisians  and 
the  Vendeens  with  the  Gascons.  And  now  as 
the  clamor  grows  more  distinct  they  recognize 
words.  Between  the  frightful  detonations  of 
the  large  pieces  and  the  sharper  ones  of  the 
"  75's"  the  men  shout  at  the  top  of  their  lungs: 

"  Susette,  Susette, 
II  ne  Jaul  pas  croire  d,  V amour  I  " 


135 


XIX 

THREE  days  later,  installed  in  a  German 
officer's  shelter  passed  over  by  the  bom- 
bardment, Robert  Picot,  after  having  copi- 
ously disinfected  with  the  smoke  of  many 
pipes  and  cigars,  writes  to  Edith: 

"My  dearest,  here  I  am  again  about  and 
very  much  alive,  after  having  known  during 
the  days  of  Saturday  and  Sunday,  with  the 
excitement  of  the  assaults,  the  intoxication  of 
victory.  When  this  letter  reaches  you,  the 
papers  will  have  told  you  in  detail  the  whole 
history  of  this  Champagne  offensive.  We 
have  gained  much  ground  and  somewhat 
weakened  our  enemies.  Later,  when  the  his- 
tory of  this  war  is  written  in  its  entirety,  the 
value  of  our  effort  will  be  determined,  even 
if  we  did  not  attain  the  definite  object  that 
we  hoped  for.  To-day,  my  beloved,  I  want 
to  tell  you,  so  that  you  may  report  to  Made- 
moiselle Louise,  who  will  be  proud  of  it,  the 
heroic  conduct  of  my  brave  friend,  Lecointre. 

"At  a  quarter  of  nine  on  Saturday  morning 

136 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

the  rain  deluging  Champagne  we  leaped  over 
in  the  parapet.  Lecointre  commanded  the 
section  next  to  mine.  In  these  moments  one 
pays  little  attention  to  his  neighbor.  He  has 
only  one  idea.  He  asks  if  each  man  is  doing 
his  duty  and  that  is  all.  From  the  parapet 
we  rushed  out  to  the  plain.  The  fire  of  the 
machine-guns  had  begun  to  hit  us.  It  was 
ten  minutes  after  our  mass  of  men  jumped  on 
the  ground  that  I  felt  a  giving  way  on  my 
right.  Several  fusees  burst  in  the  air,  and 
their  fragments  made  a  hole  in  the  human 
quadrilateral,  rending  it  apart  like  a  herd  of 
cattle  struck  by  lightning.  After  which  a 
torpedo  fell  between  our  two  squares.  My 
dearest,  what  a  cataclysm !  What  a  Day  of 
Judgment !  One  might  have  said  that  a  crater 
had  just  opened  and  a  jet  of  black  smoke,  ob- 
scuring everything,  rose  in  a  sooty  column.  I 
shall  never  forget  what  I  saw  then,  Edith.  A 
man  thrown  to  the  earth  by  the  explosion  sud- 
denly rose,  black  with  powder  and  with  soot, 
brandishing  his  hunting-knife.  I  did  not  rec- 
ognize him,  but  at  his  voice  I  trembled;  it  was 
Lecointre.  He  roared  in  the  infernal  din: 
*  Close  up  your  ranks !     Close  up  your  ranks  1 ' 

137 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

And  he  wheeled  around  his  section  like  a  shep- 
herd-dog around  his  sheep.  One  did  not 
hear  the  whistle  of  the  balls  until  they  grazed 
him,  but  it  was  a  hail-storm  of  bullets.  He 
was  not  hit.  He  had  reformed  his  section, 
which  entered  with  mine  into  the  German 
trench.  All  that  only  lasted  two  minutes. 
My  dear  Edith,  Lecointre  is  a  hero  and  I  wish 
I  were  like  him." 

And  while  the  former  gloveseller  peacefully 
writes  these  lines  on  the  table  of  the  van- 
quished enemy.  Sublieutenant  Lecointre,  be- 
fore going  to  verify  the  number  of  mattocks 
and  shears  of  his  section,  wrote  in  haste  to 
his  dear  Louise: 

"My  dearest,  I  am  safe  and  sound.  Alas !  I 
wish  I  could  say  as  much  of  my  poor  com- 
rades! It  costs  dear  to  redeem  French  soil 
from  the  Boches!  I  have  seen  my  young 
friend  fall  near  me,  a  lieutenant  twenty-three 
years  old  who  was  gayety  itself,  and  our  cap- 
tain has  received  the  severest  wounds.  God 
be  thanked  Picot  is  uninjured.  And,  my  dear 
Louise,  you  must  tell  your  cousin  about  it;  his 
bravery  has  been  above  all  praise.  His  mod- 
esty will  make  him  keep  silence,  no  doubt.     I 

138 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

have  seen  him,  under  the  barrage  fire,  leading 
his  section  toward  the  trenches  of  the  second 
line  and  penetrating  the  first,  knife  in  hand. 
In  these  moments,  my  dearest  Louise,  we  be- 
come a  little  savage  as  the  yells  of  the  men 
mingle  with  the  uninterrupted  rumbling  of 
thunder,  and  one  thinks  no  more  of  being 
afraid  for  his  life.  But  I  truly  think  that  I 
should  not  have  had  the  disconcerting  aplomb 
of  our  brave  Picot,  charging  right  toward  the 
Boches,  who  surrendered  at  the  mere  sight 
of  him,  while  farther  away  these  men  threw 
hand-grenades  to  vanquish  the  last  resistance 
of  the  menacing  enemies.  Yes,  my  dear 
Louise,  tell  Mademoiselle  Edith  that  she  may 
be  proud  of  him." 
Qu'un  ami  veritable  est  une  douce  chose  t 


139 


XX 

THREE  days  after  the  Purification  of 
Our  Lady,  on  the  eve  of  Saint  Doro- 
thea, the  count  Mainfroy  of  Catalpan  and  his 
attendants  landed  near  the  country  of  Bar- 
bary,  on  the  border  of  the  sea,  and  they  dis- 
embarked in  the  night  so  that  the  Saracens 
might  not  see  them.  Then  Mamfroy  sent 
spies  to  discover  the  place  of  the  Christian 
camp  where  he  was  advised  to  go,  before  de- 
livering his  lady.  The  lord  of  Catalpan  and 
his  retainers  rode  on  horses  many  days  and 
many  nights.  At  the  break  of  day  they  rode 
quietly,  and  the  same  by  the  light  of  the  stars, 
enduring  at  each  turn  the  assaults  of  the  Sara- 
cens. And  the  count  and  his  followers  thus 
killed  many  infidels.  The  Monday  before 
Ash  Wednesday  the  little  troop  arrived  in  the 
Christian  camp  near  a  river.  And  the  knight 
knew  from  a  distance  that  it  was  the  Christian 
camp,  so  they  made  great  haste  to  reach  it, 
singing  sweet  songs  of  France.  Then  the 
count  of  Foix  saw  his  nephew  and  began  to 

140 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

weep,  as  he  had  thought  he  was  enchained  in 
a  deep  prison.  The  young  lord  embraced 
him  and  told  him  the  miracle  by  which  he  was 
saved.  When  he  heard  it,  the  count  of  Foix 
loudly  praised  God  and  His  Mother.  'Alas !' 
replied  the  young  lord,  *I  am  not  able  to  re- 
joice over  my  liberty  because  my  lady,  Mira- 
belle  of  Pampeluna,  has  taken  my  place  in  a 
castle  of  Barbary.'  'My  nephew,'  replied  the 
count,  'eagerness  to  deliver  your  lady  is  a 
noble  desire;  but  a  better  plan  is  to  fight  for 
the  king  of  France,  who  is  planning  hi  this 
place  a  great  enterprise  and  must  not  be  left 
in  such  peril  and  danger.'  'By  the  head  of 
God ! '  cries  Mainfroy,  '  I  shall  fight  first  be- 
fore going  to  save  my  lady.'  'Well  said!' 
cries  the  count  of  Foix.  And  again  he  hands 
his  banner  to  his  nephew. 

"It  was  Shrove  Tuesday  when  the  Chris- 
tian army  crossed  the  river  by  a  ford.  And 
the  stallion  carrying  Count  Mainfroy  was 
drowned  because  he  tried  to  climb  too  steep  a 
river  bank.  It  was  a  wonder  to  see  all  this 
company  cross  these  waters.  Soon  the  Sara- 
cen camp,  which  was  built  there,  was  agitated 
and  its  mangonels  began  to  throw  many  stones 

141 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

and  the  archers  many  arrows.  So  the  Chris- 
tian knight  always  advanced  and  marched 
toward  a  beautiful  town  of  Barbary,  whose 
square  towers  and  flat  roofs  they  saw  at  a  dis- 
tance. The  Knights  Templars  from  Cyprus 
went  with  their  spears  to  the  help  of  Mainfroy 
and  from  the  other  bank  of  the  river  threw 
fiery  weapons,  burning  the  Saracen  machines. 
And  when  they  were  all  burned  to  ashes,  they 
did  not  throw  any  more  limestone  or  rocks. 
Then  the  Christians  went  on  without  obstacle 
and  arrived  before  the  town.  When,  banner  in 
hand,  the  lord  of  Catalpan  saw  the  high  walls 
of  the  ramparts  from  which  the  torrents  of 
boiling  oil  had  poured  down,  he  was  inflamed 
by  the  greatest  desire  of  conquest  he  had 
ever  known.  And  he  cried  loudly,  raising  his 
banner:  'At  them !  At  them ! '  Then  as  they 
swerved  he  saw  what  he  could  never  forget, 
namely,  on  a  great  highway  leading  to  the  en- 
trance of  the  town,  a  great  lord  riding  on  a 
horse  draped  with  cloth  of  gold.  This  lord 
was  surrounded  by  so  many  other  knights  that 
they  filled  the  roads  and  the  country  from  the 
river  to  this  place.  And  the  great  lord,  with 
the  noble  face,  had  overcome  everything. 
And  because  divine  majesty  mingled  with  the 

142 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

sweetness  of  his  features,  Mainfroy  knew  that 
it  was  the  king  of  France.     'By  Saint  Denis/ 
he  thought,  'if  I  never  see  my  lady  again  I 
shall  send  my  troop  under  the  oil  and  the 
stones  to  conquer  this  town  for  my  lord.   Then 
stones  were  hurled  to  break  down  the  doors; 
and  as  water  pours  into  the  hole  in  a  ship, 
Mainfroy's  archers  entered  through  the  open- 
ings and  massacred  the  infidels.     Then  a  Sar- 
acen engine,  hurling  stones  and  rocks,  threw 
at  the  forehead  of  the  good  knight  such  a  large 
paving-stone  that  he  fell  down  as  if  dead. 
In  great  fear  and  misery  the  count  of  Foix 
ran  to  help  his  nephew,  but  drew  back  with 
horror   on  perceiving   the  suflfering   of  that 
brave  face,  which  was  no  longer  more  than  a 
gaping  hole   pouring   out   blood    and    from 
which  the  eyes  were  gone.     So  the  prayer  of 
the  brave  knight  was  granted  that  he  should 
not  see  his  lady  again  until  the  city  should  be 
taken,  for  it  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  king  of 
France,  and  Mainfroy  lived,  tended  by  the 
Knights  Templars,  but  he  would  never  see 
either  the  light  of  day  nor  the  lady  who  was 
more  to  him  than  the  light,  that  is  to  say  the 
lovely  Mirabelle." 
Thus  read  des  Assernes,  one  evening  in 

143 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

March,  1916,  in  the  private  end  of  the  book- 
shop, Rue  du  Cherche-Midi.  At  this  point  in 
his  reading  a  client  wanting  a  novel  and  calling 
Monsieur  Duval  away  from  the  absorbed  audi- 
ence causes  an  interruption  and  gives  Made- 
moiselle Louise  a  chance  to  ask  him: 

"But  did  this  poor  Mainfroy  remain  blind 
allof  hisUfe?" 

"Alas!  yes,  mademoiselle,"  repUes  des  As- 
sernes,  with  sincere  sadness;  have  you  not  per- 
fectly understood  that  he  lost  not  only  his 
sight  but  his  eyes,  which  was  irreparable  ?  " 

"He  must  have  been  very  much  disfig- 
ured!" says  Madame  Duval. 

"Madame,"  continues  des  Assernes,  "one  is 
not  beautiful,  indeed,  when  one  loses  the  orna- 
ment and  the  light  of  the  countenance,  and 
when  in  its  place  there  are  two  gaping  holes. 
But  my  troubadour  is  very  discreet  about  it. 
The  flower  of  good  French  taste  in  literature 
had  already  bloomed.  Rude  as  he  may  have 
been,  the  writer  of  the  Middle  Ages  knew  al- 
ways how  to  stop  on  the  edge  of  horror  and 
disgust.  The  lord  of  Catalpan  was  assuredly 
not  in  a  pleasant  predicament.  But  the 
beauty  of  this  leonine  knight  must  always  re- 

144 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

main  for  us  independently  of  his  features. 
Although  his  face  is  disfigured,  he  remains, 
nevertheless,  an  ideal  and  charming  person. 
Our  admiration  for  him  and  our  respect  cause 
us  to  draw  a  veil  over  his  terrible  scars." 

"I  should  like  to  know,"  asks  Mademoiselle 
Louise,  impatient,  "if  Mirabelle  was  deliv- 
ered, if  she  saw  her  knight  again,  and  what 
she  felt  when  she  no  longer  found  in  him  any- 
thing but  an  object  of  horror." 

"Mademoiselle,"  repHes  des  Assernes,  "you 
approach  here  the  most  delicate,  moving,  dra- 
matic, and  charming  passage  of  this  beautiful 
story.  Unhappily  I  have  not  had  up  to  the 
present  the  time  to  make  a  fair  copy  of  it. 
Nevertheless,  here  is  a  resume  of  what  hap- 
pened. ..." 

With  this  they  settle  themselves  more  com- 
fortably in  the  private  part  of  the  shop. 
Monsieur  Duval,  having  seen  his  customer 
out,  comes  back  to  take  his  place  again,  and 
des  Assernes,  seeing  that  every  one  is  hanging 
on  his  words,  continues: 

"When  the  town  was  conquered  and  our 
hero  recovered,  the  count  of  Foix  said  to  his 
nephew  that  it  was  now  right  for  him  to  go  to 

145 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

save  his  lady.  Behold,  the  blind  knight  in- 
trusted with  a  mission  singular  enough  in  his 
condition.  You  will  all  exclaim  at  the  impos- 
sibility. But  it  was  not  an  enterprise  too 
reckless  for  a  lord  of  the  character  of  Main- 
froy.  He  had  a  horse,  his  lance,  and  his  shield 
brought  to  him,  and  climbed  into  the  saddle. 
As  he  had  a  faithful  esquire,  he  charged  him 
to  lead  the  stallion  by  the  bridle.  One  hun- 
dred men  at  arms  followed  them,  and  they 
had  a  spy  for  a  guide.  Meanwhile  Mirabelle 
of  Pampeluna  was  pining  away,  and  almost 
dying,  in  her  room  ornamented  with  silver 
crescents.  One  day  she  heard  a  loud  noise  in 
front  of  the  castle;  she  went  to  the  loopholes 
and  saw  the  crusaders.  You  may  imagine 
whether  her  heart  beat,  for  in  the  proud  bear- 
ing of  the  chief  of  the  troop  she  had  no  hesi- 
tation in  recognizing  her  knight.  I  think  that 
you  do  not  doubt  a  single  minute  whether  the 
knight  of  Catalpan,  blind  as  he  was,  was  still 
invincible.  To  conquer  the  Saracen  castle 
was  for  him  the  work  of  an  instant.  And  then 
he  searches  from  room  to  room  for  the  lady  of 
his  thoughts,  while  the  black  slaves  fled,  utter- 
ing piercing  cries.     But  when  he  arrived  at 

146 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

Mirabelle's  room  and  the  sound  of  his  name 
spoken  by  the  sweet  lips  of  the  lady  froze  him 
to  the  very  marrow,  the  knight  remained  on 
the  threshold  as  if  insensible.  There  were 
several  truly  tragic  seconds.  The  poor  lord, 
feeling  that  he  had  lost  all  attractiveness,  did 
not  dare  to  advance;  the  lady  was  as  over- 
whelmed by  what  she  found  in  the  face  that 
had  recently  so  charmed  her.  I  think  that  in 
her  place  I  should  have  hidden  in  a  corner 
heaving  sighs  of  horror.  For,  indeed,  in 
love.  .  .  ." 

"Monsieur  des  Assernes,"  reproves  Made- 
moiselle Louise,  "you  are  not  a  woman  really 
in  love.  You  are  only  a  romance  writer. 
Otherwise,  you  would  not  spHt  so  many  hairs 
over  this  scene  which  should  move  along  with 
great  simpUcity.  Did  your  troubadour  give 
so  many  words  to  it?" 

"Heavens,"  replies  Monsieur  des  Assernes, 
a  little  embarrassed,  "I  acknowledge  that, 
in  the  text,  the  plot  is  unravelled  in  two 
lines:  'Dear  love,  I  have  found  you  again!' 
cried  Mirabelle;  to  which  Mainfroy  responded : 
'Lady,  turn  your  lovely  eyes  away  from  me, 
for  a  more  hideous  thing  has  come  to  me  than 

147 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

leprosy.'  Then  the  lady  went  to  him  and 
kissed  him  on  the  forehead." 

"You  see,  Monsieur  des  Assernes,"  says 
Louise  reprovingly,  "that  Mirabelle  did  not 
stand  on  ceremony.  As  for  me,  I  have  thought 
several  times  that  Henri  might  return  muti- 
lated. Do  not  fear  in  the  least  that  in  that 
case  I  should  be  obliged  to  force  myself  not 
to  flee  like  a  silly  fool.  No,  no,  too  happy  if 
he  should  return,  even  if  he  lacked  an  arm, 
an  eye,  or  a  leg." 

Des  Assernes,  moved,  murmurs: 

"I  am  only  half  surprised  at  you,  mademoi- 
selle, for  women  are  angels." 

"My  dear  master,  you  speak  like  an  old 
bachelor,"  continues  Monsieur  Duval. 


148 


XXI 

ON  Sunday,  in  winter,  the  family  Bou- 
chaud  came  to  spend  the  day  with  the 
Duvals  instead  of  receiving  them  at  Choisy- 
le-Roi. 

Now,  at  the  end  of  the  day,  behind  the 
closed  blinds  of  the  shop  front,  the  two  young 
women  offer  tea  to  des  Assernes  and  to  the 
two  reunited  families  in  the  lighted  shop. 
You  will  no  doubt  ask  who  is  the  robust, 
helmeted  soldier  devouring  tarts  and  little 
cakes,  handed  to  him  by  the  young  ladies.  I 
was  sure  you  would  not  recognize  him,  because 
he  has  greatly  changed.  Well,  it  is  Georges 
Bouchaud.  He  is  twenty  years  old  now,  and 
he  has  seen  so  many  things!  The  south  of 
France,  Marseilles,  and  the  sea.  His  torpe- 
doed steamer  was  wrecked  and  he  was  picked 
up  by  an  Italian  trawler.  He  has  experienced 
camps  in  the  sand  under  a  torrid  sun,  the 
European  castle,  and  the  Asiatic  castle, 
trenches  in  front  of  the  Turks  and  terrible 

149 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

assaults  against  modern  Saracens.  He  has 
seen  the  minarets  of  Constantinople  soaring 
in  his  dreams,  as  of  old  the  crusaders  saw 
Jerusalem;  he  returned,  a  deck  passenger, 
looking  over  the  sea  on  the  surface  of  the 
water  for  the  periscopes  of  Boche  submarines. 
Then  they  sent  him  back  to  Artois  to  be  with 
the  English.  He  has  spent  the  rainy  and  cold 
months  in  the  trenches,which  are  deep  streams 
where  one's  legs  splash  along,  eating  and  sleep- 
ing at  the  bottom  of  mud  holes.  Then  sud- 
denly, in  February,  there  was  the  transfer  by 
auto  to  Verdun  and  the  desperate  defense. 
Now,  he  is  come  from  Fort  Vaux  for 
seven  days'  leave.  You  must  not  be  aston- 
ished if  this  gamin  has  acquired  some  ma- 
turity. 

''Tell  Monsieur  des  Assemes  what  it  is  like 
at  Verdun,"  directs  his  mother  naively, 

''Bah!"  repHes  the  little  warrior,  recently 
returned  from  his  nightmare,  "  those  are  things 
that  one  is  not  able  to  imagine.  It  is  neces- 
sary to  have  been  there." 

"That  is  what  they  all  say,  monsieur,"  re- 
marks Father  Bouchaud,  "it  is  necessary  to 
have  been  there." 

ISO 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

"Poor  children !"  sighs  Monsieur  Duval. 

"Henri  is  at  Hill  No.  304,"  says  Louise. 

"Robert,  too,"  says  Edith. 

"What  do  you  suppose  is  happening  at  this 
moment,  what  are  they  doing  while  we  are 
here  taking  tea  so  tranquilly?"  asks  Louise 
quite  dreamily  of  herself. 

"The  fact  is,"  replies  des  Assernes,  "that  in 
this  quiet  circle,  domestic  and  intimate,  we 
have  no  doubt  at  all  that  fifty  or  sixty  leagues 
from  us  there  is  carnage  and  horror.  Here  we 
live,  there  they  are  d^ing.  And  meanwhile, 
my  dear  Duval,  if  we  seek  for  the  reason  of 
the  sacrifice  of  our  most  brilliant  intellects 
and  of  many  of  our  fallen  geniuses  on  the  field 
of  honor,  we  see  that  at  the  end  of  the  reckon- 
ing this  rare  and  precious  blood  was  only 
spilled  to  safeguard  perfectly  these  walls  of 
old  books;  I  might  say  that  they  represent, 
so  to  speak,  the  form  and  the  substance  of  the 
French  spirit.  War  is  the  most  profound  of 
human  mysteries." 

"Would  you  like  some  more  sandwiches?" 
asks  Louise  of  the  young  cousin.  "What  an 
appetite !    There,  my  boy,  and  there  again ! " 

The   two  young  girls   surround   Georges, 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

laughing.  Monsieur  Bouchaud  says  to  des 
Assernes  in  a  low  voice: 

"Monsieur,  I  am  delighted  to  hear  you 
speak  in  this  way,  you  who  have  a  superior 
mind.  But,  for  myself,  I  cannot  comprehend 
why  this  rascal,  made,  as  you  see,  with  the 
arms  and  legs  of  a  giant,  should  return  to- 
morrow down  there  with  the  420th  and  be 
crushed  as  I  crush  a  fly.  Such  an  idea,  mon- 
sieur, cannot  enter  the  mind  of  a  father." 

"Monsieur,"  replies  des  Assernes,  "it  is  not 
necessary  to  try  to  expatiate  on  the  war.  It 
is  enough  for  us  to  understand  the  task  it  im- 
poses upon  us.  The  soldiers  defending  Ver- 
dun at  this  moment  are  not  philosophers.  If 
your  son  should  think  of  deserting  ..." 

"Oh,  monsieur!"  says  Father  Bou- 
chaud. 

"I  was  relying  on  you  there,  monsieur," 
says  des  Assernes.  "The  feeling  of  national 
honor  has  affected  you  so  that  you  have  be- 
come suspicious.  You  would  not  protect  your 
son  in  the  least  if  it  dishonored  him.  You 
would  sooner  consent  to  his  death.  This  is 
the  fact:  it  is  your  feeling  and  that  of  thou- 
sands of  soldiers  who  secure  by  their  sacrifice 

152 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

the  conservation  of  an  ideal  which  we  adore 
without  understanding  it.  It  was  the  same 
with  the  crusaders  who  went  across  the  sea  for 
France.  They  obeyed  their  heroic  instinct 
telling  them  to  die  to  safeguard  noble  senti- 
ments. We  have  been  heirs  for  centuries  of 
all  that  they  fought  for.  Except  for  the  cru- 
sades, monsieur,  all  the  beautiful  books  you 
see  ranged  on  the  shelves  would  not  have  ex- 
isted, and  perhaps  in  your  store,  the  Meilleur 
Marche,  one  could  not  have  purchased  such 
marvels  of  taste  to-day  and  the  finest  fash- 
ions, for  it  is  all  one  nation;  yesterday  and  to- 
day are  all  one.  That  is  why  your  little  sol- 
dier on  leave  whom  I  see  feasting  on  cakes  to- 
day, and  taking  life  so  boyishly,  will  go  to- 
morrow courageously  to  the  Eastern  Station 
to  return  to  the  loophole  where  he  mounts 
guard  day  and  night  against  the  enemies  of 
the  noble  works  his  uncle  sells  here.  And  if 
he  did  not  go,  monsieur,  you  would  be  the 
first  to  be  grieved." 

"Evidently,  monsieur;  and  I  ask  myself 
how  I  can  understand  myself  in  the  confusion 
of  such  contradictory  feelings." 

"Monsieur,"  replies  des  Assernes,  "Mira- 

153 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

belle  of  Pampeluna,  my  heroine  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  was  no  less  divided  than  you  between 
her  love  and  her  patriotism.  This  contradic- 
tion is  not  new,  as  you  see." 

"My  dear  master,"  says  Monsieur  Duval, 
"a  propos  of  Mirabelle  of  Pampeluna,  have 
you  been  able  to  decipher  the  end  of  that 
beautiful  story?" 

Des  Assernes,  smiling  as  he  thinks  of  his 
story,  proceeds: 

"I  have  not  resisted  the  desire  that  you  sug- 
gest in  the  least,  my  dear  Duval.  Before  I 
had  read  the  substance  of  the  manuscript,  I 
tried  to  find  the  smallest  leaf  of  the  scattered 
parchment.  It  is  full  of  magnificence  and  de- 
scribes the  marriage  of  the  noble  lady  with 
Count  Mainfroy  of  Catalpan,  which  took  place 
at  Sain t-Jean-d 'Acre,  where  Mirabelle  had 
been  taken  to  a  place  of  safety,  I  think,  with 
the  queen  of  France.  It  describes  the  cos- 
tumes of  the  ladies,  the  presents  of  the  young 
bride,  details  glistening  like  cathedral  win- 
dows. The  silk,  gold,  ermine,  jewels,  pearls, 
embroideries,  inlays,  iridescent  trinkets  and 
works  of  art,  pearly  and  embossed,  all  spark- 
led and  shone,  and  I  remember  also  the  ele- 

154 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

phant  of  painted  glass,  a  gift  from  the  sultan 
of  Egypt.  But  what  you  must  see  in  the 
midst  of  this  fairy  scene  is  the  poetic  appear- 
ance of  Mirabelle  on  the  arm  of  the  blind 
and  disfigured  knight.  They  have  reached  the 
fulfilment  of  their  vows,  having  surmounted 
many  vicissitudes,  and  they  exchange  an 
amorous  duet  which  after  six  hundred  years 
still  vibrates  in  our  ears  like  fresh  and  delicious 
music.  I  have  thought  of  you,  ladies,  in  de- 
ciphering these  Gothic  and  illegible  charac- 
ters; I  foresaw  what  would  be  your  felicity, 
you  who  are  modern  Mirabelles  of  Pampeluna, 
the  day  when  the  two  heroes  you  love  come 
to  bring  you  back  victory  and  love." 

"If  they  ever  return!"  says  Edith,  wiping 
away  a  furtive  tear. 

"Ah  !  if  I  could  only  know  what  is  happen- 
ing there  at  this  moment !"  says  Louise. 


155 


XXII 

BUT  at  the  moment  when  Louise  speaks 
thus,  this  is  what  is  happening  at  Hill 
304,  which  Monsieur  Henri,  chief  of  the  sec- 
tion in  the  8th,  has  held  for  three  days  in  a 
first-line  trench. 

The  fading  twilight  bathes  in  a  gray  atmos- 
phere the  fair  and  lovely  country  of  the 
Meuse.  The  green  hill  crowned  with  thick 
woods  curves  in  soft  lines;  it  descends  on  the 
right  side  into  a  contracted  valley  through 
which  the  Bethincourt  River  flows,  and  climbs 
again  in  a  new  elevation.  And  the  other  hill 
stripped  bare  is  the  Mort-Homme.  Some- 
times, if  the  eye  is  able  to  penetrate  into  ra- 
vines made  by  the  same  hills  and  valleys, 
white  cliffs  may  be  seen  in  the  misty  distance 
and  the  clear  waters  of  the  Meuse  flowing  at 
their  feet.  Opposite  is  the  black  mass  of  the 
Corbeaux  wood,  already  plunged  in  darkness. 

And  in  the  calm  Elysium  of  this  peaceful 
scene  the  formidable  cataclysm  of  an  artillery 
battle  is  let  loose. 

156 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

The  trench,  where  Sublieutenant  Lecoin- 
tre's  section  has  taken  shelter,  was  dug  with 
difficulty  in  the  chalk  of  the  north  side.  But, 
shooting  from  the  Corbeaux  wood,  the  ene- 
mies have  nibbled  little  by  little  the  foot  of 
the  hill,  and  on  a  platform  which  breaks  the 
slope  at  one  point,  they,  too,  are  clinging  to 
another  trench,  opposite  the  French.  And 
while  the  two  companies  of  infantry  lie  in  wait 
for  each  other,  challenge  and  expect  each 
other,  the  great  shells  rain  ceaselessly  down, 
levelling  the  declivity,  filling  up  the  trenches, 
annihilating  the  shelters,  machine-guns,  mus- 
kets, soldiers,  and  petty  officers. 

Below,  to  the  southeast,  Verdun,  the  invisi- 
ble fortress,  sleeps.  It  has  become  sacred  less 
through  its  role  than  by  the  blood  of  those  who 
have  died  in  its  defense. 

Sublieutenant  Lecointre  is  seated  in  a  re- 
cess in  his  shelter  and,  with  his  elbows  on  his 
knees,  tries  to  dream  a  minute.  But  it  is  im- 
possible. He  cannot  even  bring  back  the 
vision  of  Louise.  It  wavers  and  is  obliterated. 
Besides,  everything  is  about  to  end.  Death  is 
there  in  possession  of  him,  of  his  friends  and 
of  his  men.    A  bursting  shell  on  the  parapet 

157 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

has  just  entombed  three  soldiers  of  his  sec- 
tion near  by;  they  are  working  to  extricate 
their  corpses,  hoping  in  vain  that  life  has  not 
left  them  altogether.  The  next  time  it  will  be 
his  turn.  Life  is  pouring  out  for  him  the  last 
bitter  drops  of  the  cup.  A  little  earlier,  a  lit- 
tle later !  One  cannot  even  imagine  the  hor- 
ror of  this  minute. 

In  seeing  Monsieur  Henri  despondent  in 
this  way,  you  think  perhaps  with  some  regret: 
"Here  is  a  shattered  hero  who  has  lost  his 
heroism."  Do  not  deceive  yourself.  It  is  as 
noble  for  Monsieur  Henri  and  for  thousands 
of  men  crouched  with  him  in  this  section  of 
hell  to  cling  thus  immovable,  under  shell-fire 
during  six  consecutive  days  and  nights,  as  to 
rush  en  masse  in  the  open  field  to  brilliant 
warfare.  If  all  these  men  were  not  warriors 
of  the  first  rank  they  would  long  ago  have 
marched  past,  huddled  together,  to  Chattan- 
court,  by  the  steepest  slopes  of  the  western 
hilltop.  But  no,  they  stick  to  their  untenable 
trenches,  because  the  honor  of  France  requires 
that  they  should  die  rather  than  }deld.  Noth- 
ing can  dislodge  them.  Only,  at  the  end  of 
sixty  or  eighty  hours,  they  no  longer  care  to 

158 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

laugh;  the  imperishable  sense  of  honor  alone 
sustains  the  worn-out  creature. 

The  little  white  houses  that  you  see  at  the 
bottom  of  the  valley,  between  the  poplars 
trembling  on  the  border  of  the  river  of  Beth- 
incourt,  form  the  village  of  Esnes.  They 
climb  up  on  the  slopes  of  Hill  304  on  this  side 
and  cling  also  on  the  other  side  to  the  slopes 
of  the  Mort-Homme.  It  is  there  that  the 
third  company,  with  Monsieur  Robert,  is  sup- 
porting the  first  line. 

From  the  house  where  Monsieur  Robert  is 
billeted,  at  the  end  of  the  valley,  through  the 
windows,  now  without  panes,  the  entire  sector 
may  be  seen.  This  house  is  an  old  mill  over- 
hanging the  little  river  of  Bethincourt.  The 
water-gates,  and  the  site  of  the  wheel,  are  still 
to  be  found.  The  clear  water  runs  between 
the  stones.  There  must  be  trout  under  the 
green  poplars.  But  Monsieur  Robert  does  not 
think  of  watching  their  dark  passage  in  the 
transparent  water.  His  eyes  are  lifted  to  the 
hill  of  Mort-Homme,  rising  on  the  right. 
For,  on  the  hillside  where  the  sparse  growth  of 
vegetation  barely  conceals  the  chalky  subsoil, 
little  black  ants  are  climbing  slowly.    And 

159 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

there  they  separate  in  two  horizontal  bands, 
coming  out  of  their  ant-hill,  and  from  place  to 
place  the  movement  increases  and  multiplies. 
Soon  the  entire  hill  is  covered.  From  time  to 
time  one  sees  in  the  air  above  the  poor  little 
climbing  ants  the  bursting  of  a  formidable 
bomb,  and  afterward  its  ball  of  smoke,  green 
and  sulphurous,  floats  for  a  long  time  like  a 
light  balloon;  then  they  crouch  on  the  ground; 
one  can  no  longer  distinguish  the  black  streaks 
of  their  lines.  Later  they  rise  and  begin  to 
run  again  in  bare  spaces  on  the  mountain. 

And  Monsieur  Robert  trembles,  for  he 
knows  that  these  black  ants,  so  small,  so  tiny, 
on  the  high  hill,  are  his  comrades  leaving  for 
the  assault  on  the  enemy  trenches. 

And  the  movement  increases;  by  half  sec- 
tions the  troops  come  from  here,  there,  and 
everywhere;  they  descend  the  slope  of  Mort- 
Eomme  and  remount  Hill  304.  Monsieur 
Robert  knows  that  his  regiment  will  take  part 
in  its  turn.  The  regiment  is  a  thing  secretly 
dear.  Civilians  hardly  understand  what  a 
number  may  mean  on  a  man's  collar.  Mon- 
sieur Robert  is  moved  with  profound  anguish. 
But  it  is  time  to  rejoin  his  section.    In  the 

160 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

kitchen  where  his  captain  remains  at  the  tele- 
phone he  receives  an  order  to  gather  his  men 
together  behind  the  church.  He  himself  pro- 
ceeds to  a  barn  with  a  battered-in  roof,  where 
it  is  already  night.  The  men  are  on  the 
straw,  where  one  can  vaguely  perceive  their 
blue  coats  moving. 

"Get  up,  boys!"  says  the  sublieutenant; 
"our  comrades  are  about  to  go  over  the  barbed 
wire.    We  must  be  equipped  to  aid  them.". 

Many  of  the  men  are  sleeping;  one  sees  them 
stretching  their  weary  limbs,  yawning.  Picot 
begins  again: 

"Boys,  we  are  here  to  help  our  comrades. 
They  are  in  a  dangerous  position.  It  would 
not  be  right  for  them  to  be  killed  without  us." 

In  silence  the  men  fasten  their  knapsack 
straps  and  put  them  over  their  chests  in  the 
darkness.  Not  a  word  is  heard.  As  he  grows 
accustomed  to  the  darkness  Picot  now  sees  the 
bearded  men  and  the  beardless  boys  of  class 
'15.  His  heart  is  touched  by  so  much  resigna- 
tion in  their  fearlessness. 

He  murmurs  on  leaving  them : 

"Boys,  we  will  get  them." 

Night  comes  when  they  are  assembled  be- 

i6i 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

hind  the  church.  There  are  seven  or  eight 
companies  of  various  regiments.  The  men 
speak  low.  No  trumpets,  no  drums.  They 
march,  by  sections,  to  cut  across  the  right  side 
of  Hill  304.  They  are,  in  their  turn,  Uttle 
creeping  ants.  But  here  the  thicket,  although 
cut  down  in  many  gaps,  still  hides  the  men. 
Then  they  arrive  at  the  trenches.  Soon  the 
non-commissioned  officers  have  the  grenades 
passed  along.  One  knows  that  the  grenades 
mean  that  there  will  be  an  immediate  assault. 
A  clatter  of  arms  is  heard  through  the  crowded 
trenches.  "Fix  bayonets!"  Still  the  slow 
moments  are  punctuated  by  claps  of  thunder 
and  the  noise  of  continuous  explosions.  At 
the  head  of  the  trench  occupied  by  Robert 
Picot,  one  is  constantly  disturbed  by  the  pas- 
sage of  the  stretcher-bearers  carrying  wounded 
men  on  litters,  still  covered  with  blood,  with 
unrecognizable  dangling  heads,  black  with  the 
smoke  of  the  fusillade.  Suddenly  there  is  the 
signal  of  the  whistle,  short  and  shrill,  that  they 
are  waiting  for.  With  grenades  in  their  pock- 
ets, a  gun  in  the  right  hand,  the  left  hand  free 
to  enable  them  to  jump,  the  sections  leap  over 
the  parapet.    The  first  German  trench  having 

162 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

been  taken,  the  question  is  how  to  aid  their 
comrades  to  hold  their  ground.  The  waves  of 
bluecoats  bound  along.  It  is  a  veritable 
flood  rolling  in.  And  the  shells  continue  to 
make  holes  in  the  rushing  surge,  and  the  line 
of  stretcher-bearers  continues  to  carry  the 
human  wrecks  toward  the  post  of  safety  hid- 
den in  a  grove  of  Hill  304. 

Picot,  sensitive  and  nervous,  in  the  fascina- 
tion of  this  exciting  and  intoxicating  assault, 
sees  a  wounded  man  pass  and  turn  his  head. 
He  shivers  with  horror,  for  the  unknown  man 
whose  regiment  and  grade  he  is  unable  to  dis- 
tinguish, has  no  face  left.  The  ball  destroy- 
ing his  two  eyes  seems,  as  a  result  of  coagu- 
lated blood,  to  have  removed  all  of  his  fea- 
tures. ' '  Why  have  the  stretcher-bearers  taken 
up  this  unfortunate  man?"  asks  Picot  of  him- 
self. And  he  continues  his  way  to  carry  out 
the  mission  of  his  section,  without  knowing 
that  the  Uving  corpse  he  has  just  passed  is 
Lecointre. 


163 


D 


XXIII 

0  you  suffer  much?"  asks  the  young 
assistant  doctor,  leaning  over  Mon- 
sieur Henri's  stretcher. 

The  other  stretchers  lie  in  a  straight  line  in 
a  large  trench  at  the  door  of  a  safety  post  dug 
quite  deep  in  the  earth. 

"I  do  not  suffer  enormously,"  replies  Mon- 
sieur Henri,  "but  the  blood  makes  me  blind 
and  I  do  not  see,  I  cannot  see  you." 

The  doctor  says: 

"I  am  the  doctor.    What  is  your  name?" 

"Sublieutenant  Lecointre.  You  don't  rec- 
ognize me  then,  old  fellow?" 

"Ah,  pardon,"  says  the  doctor,  moved.  "It 
is  so  badly  lighted  here." 

Water  now  trickles  down  over  the  half- 
destroyed  face.  Thick  cotton  and  dressings 
fill  the  bloody  cavities.  Twice  the  wounded 
man  feels  the  needle  of  a  syringe  piercing  his 
flesh  for  an  antitetanus  inoculation,  and  then 
for  an  inoculation  of  serum,  for  he  has  lost 
rivers  of  blood  and  his  heart  grows  weak. 

164 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

In  this  mouldy  cave  the  attendants  come 
and  go,  dressing  the  wounds  of  the  injured  and 
assisting  the  doctor.  Monsieur  Henri  asks  in 
the  tone  of  distress  of  a  wounded  man  in  dan- 
ger of  fainting: 

"Are  my  eyes  not  involved  then?" 

The  attendants  look  at  each  other  and  they 
glance  at  the  doctor,  who  responds  sadly: 

"But  no,  my  dear  man,  we  shall  save  your 
eyes  quite  easily." 

In  a  corner  the  chaplain  on  his  knees  con- 
fesses a  dying  man  and  embraces  him  before 
he  breathes  his  last  sigh.  At  a  sign,  two 
stretcher-bearers  run,  Hfting  the  sublieuten- 
ant's Utter  and  carrying  it  away  to  make  place 
for  others.  Then  the  inert  body  is  balanced 
again  through  the  winding  trenches  by  four 
tired  arms.  After  that  Monsieur  Henri,  in  a 
feverish  coma,  feels  himself  carried  in  an  auto, 
jolting  desperately  over  a  road  full  of  shell- 
holes,  which  must  be  traversed  at  full  speed, 
for  the  Boche  cannon  ferret  out  the  motor 
ambulances  on  the  way.  At  last  there  is  a 
little  bed  in  a  smooth  and  comfortable  train. 
Then  the  arrival  in  a  hospital. 

"Lift  this  bandage,  first  of  all,"  he  begs, 

165 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

"so  that  I  may  see  something  at  last !  This 
darkness  stifles  me!" 

A  soft  hand  takes  his,  and  a  woman's  voice 
replies: 

"You  must  still  have  a  little  patience,  my 
dear  wounded  man;  when  you  are  well  rested 
we  shall  rid  you  of  them." 

"Where  am  I?"  asks  Monsieur  Henri. 

"In  Paris,  at  the  Rue  Cambon  hospital." 

"In  Paris!"  says  the  sublieutenant,  smil- 
ing like  a  child.     "  In  Paris  ?     But  then  . . .  ?  " 

You  can  guess  the  rest. 


i66 


XXIV 

MONSIEUR  HENRI  has  waited  twenty- 
four  hours  for  Louise.  He  is  a  little 
nervous.  Each  time  that  the  door  of  his  room 
opens  he  is  obliged  to  make  an  effort  not  to 
tear  away  the  blinding  bandage.  At  times  he 
feels  like  crying,  for  he  is  very  weak,  and  he 
also  feels  a  little  childish  vexation  with  his 
attendant.  She  is  no  doubt  very  good,  this 
nurse;  since  yesterday  he  feels  himself  pam- 
pered by  her  like  an  old  patient  in  whom  she 
is  especially  interested.  She  continually 
comes  in  to  inform  herself  about  his  condition 
and  asks  what  he  wants.  See,  here  she  is 
again.  But  no,  there  are  a  few  steps,  a  rustle 
of  skirts.  Monsieur  Henri  instinctively  raises 
himself.  Two  arms  are  thrown  around  his 
neck.    He  murmurs:  "Louise!" 

I  do  not  need  to  tell  you  that  the  first  kiss 
lasts  a  long  time.  Then  Madame  Duval 
stammers,  quite  upset:  "The  good  weather  is 
here;  when  you  are  quite  well,  Monsieur  Henri, 

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MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

you  will  go  once  more  to  fish  for  pike  at 
Choisy-le-Roi." 

But  Monsieur  Henri  sighs:  "Louise,  how  I 
long  to  see  you !  How  hard  it  is  not  to  be 
able  to  look  at  you." 

Whereupon,  God  be  thanked,  Monsieur 
Henri  is  not  able  to  see  that  both  of  them  are 
crying.  Alas!  they  have  been  warned;  they 
know  well  that  it  is  all  over,  that  the  poor  eyes 
no  longer  exist,  that  he  will  never  see  Louise 
again.  The  dear  hands  press  his  own.  Lou- 
ise says: 

"What  difference  does  that  make,  since  I 
am  here  near  you?" 

"Louise,  I  long  to  see  you !" 

And  she  feels  the  hand  of  the  wounded  man 
searching  for  the  features  of  her  face.  .  .  . 

On  the  way  back  Madame  Duval  says 
simply  to  her  daughter:  "It  is  very  sad,  my 
poor  child,  to  think  that  you  are  to  marry  a 
blind  man." 

"What  do  you  want,  mamma?"  says  Lou- 
ise. "He  might  not  have  returned  at  all,  and 
I  have  feared  it  day  and  night.  Now  he  has 
come,  I  am  too  happy  to  be  sorry  for  my- 
seK.    Besides  we  shall  love  each  other  more 

i68 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

now,  for  I  shall  bring  light  to  him,  and  do 
not  wish  him  to  hear  of  his  blindness  from 
any  one  but  me,  for  I  shall  tell  him  so  ten- 
derly that  he  will  not  think  about  his  suffer- 
ing." 


169 


XXV 

THE  following  Sunday  the  Bouchaud  and 
Duval  families  are  reunited  around  the 
bed  of  Monsieur  Henri,  in  the  room  where  a 
gracious  and  sweet  nurse  appears  from  time 
to  time. 

"...  And  you  know," .  declares  Monsieur 
Henri,  "  they  will  never  take  Verdun." 

"Georges  is  down  there,  too,"  says  Mon- 
sieur Bouchaud.  "He  is  at  Fort  Vaux,  the 
poor  lad!" 

"Louise,"  asks  Monsieur  Henri,  "would 
you  be  willing  to  read  yesterday's  official  news 
tome?" 

And  while  Louise  reads  aloud  the  announce- 
ment of  the  furious  cannonade  resounding  on 
both  banks  of  the  Meuse  and  the  counter- 
attacks to  the  north  of  Vaux  and  of  Hill  304, 
Monsieur  Henri,  Hstening  with  all  his  ears,  in 
spite  of  the  thick  bandage  hiding  more  than 
half  of  his  face,  appears  anxious  and  troubled. 
Verdun !    And  he  sees  it  again  in  his  heart. 

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MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

"Robert  is  hunting  for  you  through  his  en- 
tire section,"  says  Mademoiselle  Edith.  "He 
wrote  me  a  desperate  letter  this  morning;  his 
comrades  have  assured  him  that  they  saw  you 
fall,  mortally  wounded.  I  reassured  him  as 
quickly  as  possible." 

"It  is  a  curious  thing,"  says  M.  Bouchaud 
then,  who  loves  to  find  the  reason  and  cause 
of  everything,  "that  the  French  have  turned 
their  eyes  for  weeks  toward  a  menaced  fortress 
and  then  are  told  that  it  is  dismantled  and 
has  no  longer  any  importance.  One  no  longer 
sees  anything  but  Verdun.  At  the  glove 
counter  the  women  talk  about  it.  An  Ameri- 
can said  to  me  yesterday:  'Oh !  it  would  make 
me  furious  if  the  Germans  should  take  Ver- 
dun,' I  responded:  'Madame,  my  son  is 
fighting  there.'  She  replied  as  she  rose:  'Oh  ! 
I  am  delighted  to  salute  the  father  of  a  great 
hero.  I  love  the  soldiers  of  Verdun.'  This 
is  what  the  neutrals  think  of  you,  Monsieur 
Henri." 

"And  Monsieur  des  Assernes  and  Mirabelle 
of  Pampeluna,  what  has  become  of  them  .^  "  in- 
quires the  wounded  man. 

"The  romance  of  Mirabelle  is  ended,"  re- 

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MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

plies  Louise,  in  a  somewhat  trembling  voice. 
"The  lord  of  Catalpan  had  his  eyes  torn  out 
when  a  Saracen  town  was  taken.  But  he  was 
able,  nevertheless,  to  deliver  Mirabelle,  and 
he  married  her  in  the  middle  of  a  beautiful 
court." 

"Did  she  marry  a  blind  man?"  asks  Mon- 
sieur Henri,  in  a  peculiar  voice. 

"Yes.  Do  you  find  that  extraordinary,  my 
dear  Henri?" 

"It  is  certainly  devotion,"  says  the  officer. 

"It  is  certainly  happiness,"  says  Louise. 

"You  think  so?" 

"Of  course.  They  would  be  so  united. 
She  would  become  indispensable  to  him.  He 
would  see  through  her  eyes;  he  could  not  walk 
without  giving  her  his  hand.  She  would  feel 
that  she  is  his  whole  life.  He  would  know 
that  she  no  longer  exists,  that  she  could  not 
exist  except  for  him.  What  a  union,  what  in- 
timacy, what  sweetness!" 

A  profound  silence  reigns  in  the  room  where 
each  heart  is  bursting  with  emotion.  Sud- 
denly a  sigh  rends  the  breast  of  the  wounded 
man." 

"I  understand,"  he  says.     "I  am  blind." 

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MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

His  hands  feel  for  Louise's  and  clasp  them 
convulsively. 

"Are  you  afraid  of  hfe  ?  "  asks  his  fiancee. 

"No,"  says  the  wounded  man.  "I  am 
happy." 


173 


XXVI 

WE  are  at  the  dessert  of  a  magnificent 
wedding-feast,  and  have  arrived  at 
the  ice-cream,  in  the  dining-room  of  the  Rue 
du  Cherche-Midi. 

"Of  course,"  says  Monsieur  Duval,  "we 
should  have  been  more  elegant  at  a  hotel,  but 
for  a  war  marriage,  without  any  ceremony,  it 
is  better  at  home." 

Indeed,  they  have  only  invited  Robert 
Picot  and  Monsieur  des  Assernes.  Unhappi- 
ly, there  is  one  empty  place,  that  of  the  gal- 
lant Uttle  Georges,  the  defender  of  the  Fort 
Vaux,  who  is  now,  with  his  heroic  com- 
mander, a  prisoner  in  Germany.  But  his 
glory  hovers  over  them  here;  his  misfortune 
and  his  courage  unite  to  make  the  thought 
of  him  poetic.  All  of  his  life  people  will  say 
to  his  family,  "  Georges  was  at  Vaux."  Mon- 
sieur Bouchaud  realizes  it  perfectly. 

"The  poor  lad,"  he  sighs,  "he  is  so  fond  of 
ice-cream !    The  cursed  Boches  would  never 

174 


MIRABELLE  OF   PAMPELUNA 

let  him  have  a  taste  of  it,  we  understand  that ! 
Anyway,  we  are  not  ashamed  of  him,  are  we, 
mamma?" 

"Certainly  not,"  says  the  mother,  "but 
they  should  give  permission  to  soldiers  to  re- 
turn to  see  their  families.  That  would  help 
them  to  be  patient." 

"The  French  do  it  finely,"  says  Monsieur 
Bouchaud,  "the  Boches  never." 

The  bride  bends  continuously  toward  her 
dear  wounded  man,  whom  she  watches  as  if 
he  were  a  little  child,  guiding  his  hand  toward 
the  plate,  cutting  his  cakes  and  peeling  his 
fruit. 

Robert  Picot,  who  has  received  the  Legion 
of  Honor,  murmurs  in  Edith's  ear: 

"I  should  like  to  lose  my  sight,  too." 

"I  cannot  wish  for  it,"  says  Edith  he- 
roically, "for  France  has  need  of  you  to 
the  very  end.  But  even  without  that,  dear 
Robert  ..." 

Over  the  champagne,  des  Assemes,  who  has 
been  silent  for  a  moment,  rises  and  says,  with 
his  wine-glass  in  his  hand: 

* '  Where  am  I  ?  Is  it  the  twentieth  century, 
is  it  the  thirteenth?    Am  I  assisting  at  the 

175 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

wedding  of  Mirabelle  of  Pampeluna,  or  at  one 
of  a  Parisian  of  the  present  day?  Can  the 
hero  I  see  here  so  admired  by  us  be  the  book- 
clerk,  as  modest  as  he  is  learned,  who  recently 
searched  through  the  octavos  with  me,  or,  in- 
deed, the  crusading  knight,  blinded  before 
Mansourah  by  the  blow  of  a  Saracen  stone? 
And  this  other  hero  attending  him,  does  he 
come  from  Damietta  or  from  Verdun?  To- 
day, as  yesterday,  I  find  again  among  the 
women  the  same  nobility,  the  same  bravery, 
and  the  same  idea  of  honor.  Among  the  men 
unconquerable  courage  and  sacrifice  for  the 
glory  of  the  country.  What  harmony  be- 
tween the  centuries !  In  spite  of  vicissitudes, 
evolutions,  and  transformations,  France  is  one 
and  always  like  herself.  What  she  was  seven 
hundred  years  ago,  under  the  white  robe  of 
chivalry,  so  I  find  her  again  to-day,  her  ex- 
pression graver,  a  little  sobered  by  the  medita- 
tions of  science,  filled  with  the  smoke  of  in- 
dustry, railroads,  and  steamboats,  but  graced 
with  the  same  passion,  with  the  same  youth 
and  charm  which  fascinates  the  world  and 
disconcerts  even  her  barbaric  enemies.  I  lift 
my  glass  to  the  France  of  Mirabelle  and  to  the 

176 


MIRABELLE  OF  PAMPELUNA 

France  of  Edith  Bouchaud  and  of  Louise  Le- 
cointre!" 

And  each  one  raises  his  glass  to  immortal 
France ! 


177 


uc 


SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LlBJWRYFACl^^^^ 


